The Office: When Pam Met Jim
by Donnamour1969
Summary: My AU version of Pam and Jim's first meeting. Pam is a young widow, but lacks the courage to move on-until a cute young salesman joins Dunder Mifflin. Romance, humor, light angst. Rated T/M for some adult content.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Of course, nothing was sweeter than the early courtship between Jim and Pam—it's the stuff of TV legend. But since I am a hopeless romantic, I couldn't help but wonder what it might have been like if there hadn't been Roy there to interfere. Here is my AU version of their origin story. I hope you like it.**

**When Pam Met Jim**

**Chapter 1**

**_Pam_**

A year after I started working at Dunder Mifflin, I was engaged to Roy. The next year, we were married. Two months after that, I was a widow.

There had been a horrible accident in the warehouse involving the forklift, but I never wanted to know the details. Suffice it to say, it had been a closed-casket funeral. The police ruled it was an accident, that it had been Roy's carelessness, and despite that, David Wallace had generously given me $100,000 in compensation. Dunder Mifflin had also paid for the funeral. Roy's life insurance policy awarded me $500,000. That was more than enough to allow me not to work for a very long time, but three weeks after Roy died, I was calling David Wallace to ask if I still had my old job. I didn't know if there was some policy that would frown upon paper warehouse widows continuing to work there. He was surprised at my request, to say the least.

"You sure? I mean, there would have to be some memories…"

"There will be, but I don't think I can sit around my parents' house for much longer. God love them, but they can't stop hovering."

I could hear the gentle smile in his voice. He was such a kind, decent man.

What I didn't say was I was tired of sleeping, crying, and staring blankly out the window of my childhood bedroom. I couldn't stay at the home Roy and I had shared; not yet, anyway. With all the sudden changes in my life, I just didn't have the gumption to go out looking for a new job.

"I get it, Pam," he said. "Look, you always have a job at Dunder Mifflin, no question. Come back whenever you're ready."

"How about next week?" I asked quickly, with a genuine smile for the first time in weeks.

He laughed softly. "Okay. You want me to call Michael for you?"

I chuckled too. No clarification was necessary; we both knew how Michael Scott could be. "Yeah, that would be really nice of you. Thank you, David."

"I'm happy to help. And you let me know if there's ever anything else I can do for you, I mean that sincerely."

"I know you do. Thanks again, David, for everything."

Nearly a year later, I was still a receptionist at Dunder Mifflin, and getting on with my life—if you count finding a new apartment, buying a cute little Toyota, and getting through one day at a time getting on with things. Oh, and I had a cat now.

A few weeks after Roy had died, Angela's cat, Sprinkles, had a litter of kittens. When they were old enough, she offered me one—probably the nicest thing she has ever done for me. And even though I'd always thought of myself as more of a dog person, and much as I didn't want to become an old widowed cat lady, Vincent Van Gogh (or so it said on his official pedigree papers) became the comforting center of my life. He woke me up every morning with sweet kitty kisses (okay, I know he was just hungry), and greeted me excitedly after work at the front door, rubbing against my legs worshipfully (and yes, he mainly wanted me for my kibble). But there was someone else in this world who relied on me, and I relied on him, and the little ball of fluff filled in a small portion of the hole in my heart.

I began to understand Angela better, and we formed a tentative sort of friendship, sharing pictures of our cats on our tiny flip phone screens in the break room. She even came by once or twice to visit Vincent, telling him about his brothers and sisters she still hadn't the heart to sell.

"I can't sell Sprinkles's children!" she'd cried passionately.

I hoped her landlord was just as understanding. I'll spare you the details of when I brought Vincent over for a "playdate," or the bizarre and elaborate birthday party she threw for Sprinkles—I was the only human guest.

But it was Angela who found me crying in the stairwell after I got the call that Roy's gravestone had been set. She drove me to the cemetery after work, and even held my hand for a minute as we stood in front of the simple stone, while a cold March wind whipped around our coats, and my tears froze on my cheeks. We had bonded over our cats and our mutual loneliness, and while she was still sometimes the office bitch (especially during party planning committee meetings), I knew she would be there for me if ever I asked.

So, long story short, I was getting along okay by the time Jim Halpert first walked through Dunder Mifflin Scranton's front door. I looked up with a helpful smile as the tall, lanky young man in the gray suit stopped at the reception desk. He carried an old leather messenger bag by its handle. His hair was neatly trimmed, though not very stylish (I had the fleeting thought that his mom might have cut it) and his boyish face made me think he was just out of high school. But when his wide hazel eyes met mine, I saw a hint of wry, almost world-weary humor there, and when he gave an answering, brilliant smile, out of nowhere I could only think: _Wow!_ I felt my cheeks grow warm, my heart skip a beat.

"May I help you," I somehow managed, hoping I adequately covered my very unprofessional physical response to him.

"Yeah. I mean, I hope so. I'm Jim Halpert; I'm here to see Michael Scott. I have an interview for a sales position." His voice was smooth and deeper than I'd expected, making me feel warm on the inside too.

Odd that Michael hadn't mentioned an appointment today. I glanced at my boss's dark office window.

"He's not in yet," I said, "but I'm sure he'll be here soon. Please, have a seat." I nodded toward the couch near the entry way. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No thanks. I probably don't need the extra caffeine right now." His eyes turned sheepish, and I smiled in understanding. Interviews were the worst.

"Well, let me know if you change your mind. I'm Pam Beesly, by the way." He took a seat on the couch and I figured he would quietly settle in for the wait. To my surprise (and pleasure) he spoke again.

"Nice to meet you. So, any hints on getting in good with the boss?"

I grinned, thinking of the best way to impress Michael. "Laugh at his jokes, and you're in."

He raised thick, expressive eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yep."

He tapped his full bottom lip with a long finger. "Hmmm…good to know."

"Are you from Scranton?" I heard myself asking. Something in me wanted to keep him talking.

"Born and raised. You?"  
"Yes. What high school did you go to?"

"West Scranton High, class of '97."

I couldn't believe it; we were the same age.

"I went to Valley View. Also graduated in '97."

"Cool," he said. "Small world." I loved the note of irony in his voice, for of course, it really wasn't that small of a world when two people from Scranton, Pennsylvania end up working at the same place.

"Yeah." Our eyes held for a long moment, his alive with definite masculine interest. I swallowed and felt my pulse quicken as the seconds skipped by. The phone startled me into breaking eye contact, and, excusing myself, I took the call.

By the time I hung up, Michael was walking through the door. He noticed Jim immediately.

"Hey!" he said, with his usual enthusiasm. "You must be the new recruit."

Jim got to his feet, and it was almost comical how Michael's eyes widened as he rose to his full height, towering over my boss by at least half a foot.

"Mr. Scott-Jim Halpert." He held out his large hand, which Michael gamely shook.

"Call me Michael. My mother's name was Mr. Scott. Wow! They sure grow 'em up big at Penn State. Step into my office, said the spider to the fly. I don't bite, I promise—If I did it would have to be your knee caps, Slim Jim. Ha! Pam—hold my calls please."

He laughed at his own joke, and, taking my advice, Jim chuckled good-naturedly. As Michael led the way inside his office, Jim shot me a surreptitious look of mock terror, and I grinned and gave him an encouraging thumbs up. I looked up to find that everyone in the bullpen was watching the spectacle that was Michael and a possible new salesman. Well, not everyone was looking at Michael and Jim; Angela was looking speculatively at me. Her schoolmarm face showed disapproval at my smile. I flushed and went back to work.

Over the next half hour, I'd glanced up from time to time at the window to Michael's office, hearing an occasional burst of robust laughter (mainly Michael's). Mostly I stared at the back of Jim's neck, where the skin was a little whiter than his face and hands, proving my theory that his hair cut was recent. So, he tended to wear his hair longer; I thought idly that shaggier would suit him better.

When the pair finally reemerged from Michael's office, both of them were all smiles. Jim caught my eye and gave a little nod of gratitude.

"Attention everybody! Thanks to my outstanding sales pitch, we have a new salesman to add to the Dunder Mifflin family. Please welcome—"and he gave a loud drum roll on the counter in front of me—"Jim Halpert!"

Everyone clapped politely.

"Pam, please show Jim around, will you?" He patted Jim none too gently on the back, startling him and pushing him to take a few inadvertent and embarrassing steps forward. Jim was gracious however, recovering quickly and thanking Michael for the opportunity. He gave his new coworkers an awkward wave hello.

Michael went back into his office and shut the door, while I hurried around my desk where Jim was waiting for me. In my flat Keds, he seemed like a giant. I looked up into his sparkling eyes.

"Congratulations," I said with a smile.

"Thanks for the tip," he replied softly, letting out a sigh of relief. "I really needed this job."

"I'm sure you'll do great. You need to catch your breath before the tour?"

"Nah, I'm feeling pretty good right now. Bring it on."

I felt my smile widen. "Well," I began conspiratorially, "I'll show you to your desk first. Now enjoy this moment, because you're never going to go back to this time before you met your desk mate, Dwight."

He laughed in confusion. "What?"

"Trust me," I said, and led him to the empty desk next to Dwight Schrute.

I introduced them, and Dwight being Dwight, studied Jim from head to toe before reluctantly rising to his feet. I realized immediately that he'd been calculating whether Jim was taller. I laughed behind my hand when we all noticed at the same time that Jim beat him by at least an inch.

"Dwight Schrute," Dwight enunciated proudly. He offered his hand, and Jim took it. It pleased Dwight when Jim flinched in surprise at how aggressive his handshake was. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud when Jim squeezed back—hard, and Dwight grunted under his breath. "Are you a Mason?" Jim asked him dryly, implying that they were participating in a secret handshake.

"Amish," Dwight said, and abruptly extricated his hand. "What's your sales experience?"

"Aside from working at a call center as a college job, this will be my first, actually. I've been at Martin-Fields the last two years in the marketing department before they folded. Marketing was actually my major at Penn State Scranton."

"Aw," said Dwight, as if that explained everything. "Still a padawan. But don't worry; I'll take you under my wing and teach you everything I know. I'm the top salesman here three years running."

"Well, then, I'll defer to you, Master," Jim replied, slightly inclining his head. I was impressed. Two minutes and he was already handling Dwight like a pro.

"Very good," said Dwight, seeming to grow that extra inch before our eyes. "Lesson the first: tell me everything you know about beets."

"Beets?" Jim's eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Plenty of time to discuss that later, Dwight," I interrupted, taking Jim's arm and steering him toward Phyllis's desk.

I continued the tour, introducing him to the rest of the sales staff and then to Accounting. Angela was even colder than usual, and didn't even offer a smile when she half-heartedly welcomed him. Very rude, even for her.

When we were alone in the break room, Jim said: "Man, you weren't kidding about Dwight. I feel like that time I walked in on a Dungeons and Dragons meeting in high school. It was like I stepped into another dimension—one where I will never fit in."

"If you smell something funny tomorrow, don't be surprised if Dwight has marked his territory."

Jim screwed up his face in horror; I think he almost believed me. I giggled.

"And what was that about…_beets_?"

I rolled my eyes. "Dwight owns a beet farm. Don't worry, he'll tell you all about it. In painful detail. Endlessly."

"I don't think I've ever even tried a beet before."

"Oh, God, don't tell Dwight that! You'll be subjected to borscht at lunch for a week."

He laughed. "Okay, my lips are sealed. Guess I lucked out having you as a tour guide. Clearly you are the Deep Throat of Dunder Mifflin Scranton." He realized immediately how terrible that sounded, and I laughed at his mortified expression.

"I'm so sorry," he said, flushing bright red. "That came out totally wrong."

"That's okay; I know what you meant. And thanks, I guess."

I grinned at how adorable he was, and then I was blushing too at the way he was looking at me with open admiration.

I too was feeling like I was back in high school, and a cute boy was giving me attention. It was then that reality slammed into me: Roy had been the only cute boy to flirt with me in high school. My right hand went to my left, where I began twisting my wedding band nervously around my finger. Jim immediately thought I had reconsidered being offended.

"You okay? I mean, I really am sorry for my poor word choice. I can be totally oblivious sometimes." I somehow doubted that.

"Oh, no. Don't worry about it, really. Let's go through the kitchen and then into the Annex. I think Toby in HR will have some forms for you to fill out."

I left Jim in Toby's capable hands, also asking if Toby wouldn't mind continuing Jim's tour on to the warehouse—not the day I was ready to go down there. Toby's sad eyes looked at me in quiet understanding.

When I returned to my desk alone, Angela came over to talk.

"You're still in mourning, Pam," she admonished primly. "It's not appropriate for you to be flirting with him."

Although I had been having similar thoughts, her words irritated me, and I gave her a look of offended annoyance.

"This isn't the nineteenth century, Angela. Women don't have to wear their widow's weeds for a year."

"Well, they should, out of respect. And remember, you're not the only one to consider in this. You must think of Vincent; he's at a tender age and the introduction of any new people could be very disruptive for him."

She was worried about _my cat_?

"Besides," she was continuing, "you're obviously not ready for any new… _relationships._" She glanced pointedly at the wedding ring I still wore, and I felt guilty again. It was true that I'd been a little flirty with Jim, and I hadn't thought about Roy once until that moment in the break room. Angela was right: I wasn't ready; I would need to be a little more professional with him, and not give him the wrong idea. I watched her walk back to her desk, trying very hard not to be mad at her when she'd only spoken the truth.

Jim returned to make himself comfortable at his new desk. I smiled cordially, but either he was very intuitive, or my controlled expression had given me away, for he frowned at my attitude's total 180. I couldn't blame the guy; I was feeling pretty confused myself. I tried to focus on my work, but I sensed his eyes on me from time to time, and I admit to sneaking a peek or two at him when I thought he wasn't looking.

Just before lunch, Michael invited Jim into the conference room, where he'd asked me earlier to set up two unconnected phones for training purposes. They worked through lunch, and Michael had me send out for pizza. Later, Dwight was invited in, and toward the end of the work day, they were using the real phone. At about 4:45, the three men filed out, smiles all around, though maybe a somewhat strained one from Dwight.

"Attention everyone," said Michael. "I'm proud to say that Jim here has just closed his first sale!" Genuine applause erupted in the bull pen. "And this guy is smooth, let me tell you. If this is any indication of what we have to look forward to, Dwight, you'd better be on your toes. We might have found our new golden boy!"

Jim visually blanched. Healthy competition was one thing, but no one wants to be put in a position of challenger on their very first day. Jim glanced my way. A few hours with Dwight and he'd seen the lay of the land. I gave Jim a small smile of understanding.

On his way out for the day, Jim stopped by my desk. He eyed the candy dispenser with interest.

"Are these for anybody?" he asked of the assorted jelly beans.

"Of course."

He chose a black licorice and a cotton candy with two dexterous fingers, eating one at a time to savor each flavor—just like I liked to do. "Jelly Bellies are my favorite," he commented, and I filed that information away.

"Good first day?" I asked.

He grinned. "I guess so—but I think I made an enemy." His eyes slid meaningfully over to Dwight, who was busy straightening his bobble heads and gathering his things.

"Don't worry; he's relatively harmless. I mean, he _seems_ to be…"

"Why? Because I have been wondering what happened to the guy who used to sit in my chair."

"Well," I began, forgetting my earlier resolution to keep my distance. I lowered my voice for effect, causing him to lean over the counter to better hear me. I caught a whiff of his scent—clean with a hint of citrus-that had been tantalizing me all day.

"No one really knows. Some say he retired and moved to Florida. Others—I mean, those of us who are sometimes considered the Deep Throats of Dunder Mifflin Scranton—_we _are very suspicious." He shook his head, abashed at my teasing. "I mean, it was only after he disappeared that Dwight _doubled _his sales."

Jim was trying very hard not to grin. "You mean, even _after_ they probably divided the retired guy's accounts among the remaining salespeople?"

"Yes! It was amazing. Funny thing though—no one has heard from him since. And I heard through a reliable source that Dwight has no alibi for the night he disappeared. I probably shouldn't mention this, but if I were the cops, I'd be digging up a few beet fields."

"_Very_ suspicious," Jim agreed dramatically, reaching again for the jelly beans. He selected a buttered popcorn and a coconut. "Well, I really appreciate the warning, Pam. I will definitely keep that in mind."

"You do that," I said. "For your own sake," I finished, sotto voce. I smiled and called good night as my coworkers left one by one or in pairs, talking and joking about their days and discussing evening plans. Angela repeated her judgmental glance, nodding a stiff good-bye. Dwight soon followed, pausing near Jim.

"Good night, _newbie_," he sneered. "But don't think every day is going to be as easy as this one was. Working here is nothing but pain and suffering, and it takes a hard man to run with the big dogs."

Jim's lips quirked as he tried to weed through the mixed metaphor. "I'm sure I won't sleep a wink, worrying about it," he said dryly. "'Night, Dwight. Thanks for all your help today."

"Hmph," said his new nemesis, and made his way out the door.

"So, this is my life now." Jim's grin held more than a touch of irony.

"It would appear so. Congratulations on surviving Dwight Schrute, Day One."

"I couldn't have done it without you, Beesly," he said, and the fact that he both remembered _and _used my last name gave me a little thrill. It was a very "guy" thing to do, to call another guy by their last name, and it amused me that he chose to honor me in this way, sort of like an honorary "one of the guys," which I proudly accepted.

"I'm here to help, Halpert."

His eyes glowed in appreciation of my returning the honor.

"See you tomorrow then?" He went back to grab his messenger bag from beneath his desk. Funny, it didn't look at all like a purse when _he_ slung the strap over his chest.

"Yep. I'll be here, bright and early."

He stopped again and filched a couple more Jelly Bellies for the road, not even bothering being choosy this time.

"Good night, Pam. It's nice meeting you."

"Good night, Jim. You too."

And with a repeat of his opening devastating smile, Jim Halpert left the building.

When he left, it was like all of the fresh air had been sucked from the room, and I sat alone in my chair, trying to resist the sudden urge to bawl like a baby.

**A/N: Next up, Jim's point of view. I hope you will join me. Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to anyone out there who might be reading this. Man, this is a hard fandom to break into. I wish I could better gauge if you like my writing or not. Anyway, I imagine this is mostly for my own amusement, and if I'm having fun, I hope someone out there is having fun too.**

**Chapter 2**

**_Jim_**

They always tell you that when it finally happens to you, you'll just know.

Well, "it happened" on my first day of my new job at Dunder Mifflin. Probably in the first minute, but it certainly became crystal clear thirty minutes later, when Pam Beesly warned me about my new coworker, Dwight Schrute.

I'd looked down into the hazel eyes of the cute receptionist and felt myself fall. Almost literally. I mean, I felt a little dizzy and light-headed, my knees went weak—the whole nine yards. Seriously, it was almost like "She's the One" had flashed before my eyes in neon. I know how this sounds. It's embarrassing. And cheesy. God knows a few days before, I'd be making fun of a buddy who admitted something like this to me, but not now. Love at first sight is a real thing, people.

After a mostly sleepless night, wherein I relived the entire day multiple times, focusing mainly on my conversations with Pam, I got up without the aid of the alarm and dragged myself tiredly into the shower. I'd been dwelling on how, toward the end of the day before, her bubbly mood had cooled. Something had upset her, and I hoped it wasn't me. I could only cringe thinking about that stupid Deep Throat remark, but I didn't take her for the overly-sensitive type. No, it had to be something else. I would try to find out today. The water and some coffee revived me, and my heart began to pound just thinking about seeing her again.

Before opening the door to the office, I took a deep, calming breath. And there she was again, dressed in similar clothes as the day before—pink striped button-up with a baby blue sweater and a modest skirt. Her curly hair was pulled back from her face like before, and her flawless skin was nearly devoid of makeup, but her cheeks grew rosy when she saw me, and her smile transformed her face from pretty to gorgeous.

My heart sputtered in my chest. Was I going into a-fib? If I felt like this every morning, how the hell was I going to survive this job?

"Good morning," she said brightly, her eyes sparkling.

"Hey," I said, like an idiot. I paused at Reception, saw the Jelly Belly dispenser had been refilled, and, much like yesterday, used them as an excuse to linger in her presence. She smelled like roses, and I breathed it in like smelling salts—I hope it wasn't too creepy and obvious. I couldn't taste the candy I dropped in my dry mouth.

She was nodding toward Dwight Schrute's desk, currently empty.

"Welcome to Day Two," she teased. I rolled my eyes.

"Gee, thanks."

The man in question arrived, and we both watched as he performed what I would soon learn was his daily ritual—remove overcoat. Hang it up on the coat rack. Adjust jacket and tie. Turn on pager. Go to desk without a word to Pam or me, turn on his computer and arrange his desk supplies for the day, before finally, setting his row of bobble heads bobbling, and plopping heavily down into his chair.

I grinned at Pam. "Wish me luck," I whispered. She smiled back and gave me a small salute, like I was going into battle. God, I was in big trouble with this girl.

The rest of the staff arrived, including the boss, who promptly called us all in for a staff meeting in the conference room. It was mostly silly and boring, but meeting Pam's eyes across the room in shared amusement made the whole thing infinitely more meaningful. The rest of the morning, I spent working the leads Michael had kindly supplied me, so that by lunch time, I'd actually made my first independent sale. When I proudly told Dwight, he just shrugged and commented about not congratulating me on doing my job.

Yeah, Dwight was something else. If it wasn't the annoying double pencil tapping ala Ringo Starr, it was the humming under his breath of _Smoke on the Water_ (but just the most well-known riff, over and over) or the mindless side-to-side swivel in his chair, which could do with a squirt or two of WD-40. By lunchtime, I was ready to kill myself. Or him.

I got my sandwich from the breakroom fridge and sat down with my grape soda and chips from the vending machines. I was thrilled when Pam joined me with her salad.

"This seat taken?" she asked shyly.

"Sure." I happily slid my food over to accommodate her.

Others were filtering in, but no one sat by us, though Angela from Accounting shot Pam a dirty look when she passed through with a bag of baby carrots and a cup of hot tea. Promptly at noon, Dwight had made a beeline for the front door, and we wouldn't see him, thank God, till after lunch.

We sat awkwardly together at the little round table, until Pam suddenly said: "Is that _Smoke on the Water_?"

"Huh?" I said, taken aback.

She chuckled. "You were humming it."

I hadn't even realized I was doing it. Well, that was the last freakin' straw.

"Something has got to be done about this," I said ominously.

"What? Your humming wasn't that bad. Not my favorite song, but—"

"No, it's _Dwight._ He's been humming it all morning. I think he's trying to drive me insane. Guess what? It's working."

She gave me a pitying grin. "No one is immune."

"Maybe. But no way I'm surviving this without a fight."

"Have you tried asking him to stop?"

"Yep. Several times. Politely. He either gives me an absent apology, or rolls his eyes, then simply switches to the next in his trio of annoyances. The double pen tapping. Then the squeaky chair swivel. Then back to the humming. It's a vicious circle, one that I'm pretty sure is in _Dante's Inferno_—I'm thinking it fits neatly between the Seventh and Eighth."

By this time, Pam was biting her lip to keep from laughing at my sarcastic hyperbole, her eyes brimming with barely contained hilarity. Her voice dropped in hushed excitement.

"What are you planning to do now?"

I smiled evilly over a bite of sandwich. "Watch and learn, Beesly. Watch and learn."

She tried and tried to sweet talk me or alternately cajole me into sharing my plans, but the truth was, I was still formulating my vengeance in my mind. I changed the subject, and since the ice was broken, we began chatting and laughing as if we'd known each other forever. I learned that she liked to draw, and from how shy she was about it, I was guessing she was very talented. I asked to see some of her work, and though she politely put me off, I could tell she was pleased at my interest. We shared similar tastes in music and I promised to share my latest play list with her.

We spoke in general terms about our families and our backgrounds—two new acquaintances getting to know each other—while I was secretly falling more and more in love with her by the minute. Her beauty wasn't even the half of it (though I was incredibly attracted to her physically); no, it was her warmth, her quick wit, her endearing nerdiness that had me staring into her eyes and hanging on her every word. Every single thing about her fascinated me—I'm not exaggerating. Yeah, I know what you're thinking; me too.

Lunch hour tripped by quickly, and when we paused to take a breath, we noticed everyone else had gone back to work. She glanced up at the wall clock. "Oh my God! It's fifteen minutes past! I'd better get back to Reception."

I was also startled at the passage of time. "Oh, wow. Me too. Sorry I talked your ear off," I said, though I was definitely not the least bit sorry.

She gave me a smile I felt in my gut. "Don't be. This was fun."

"It was," I said softly, allowing her to see my heart in my eyes—just for a second, before I switched back to polite co-worker mode. I was rewarded with one of her sweet blushes before she hurried from the break room. I wasted a few more minutes, using the restroom and making myself a cup of coffee, not wanting to leave the bubble of warmth I'd felt in Pam's presence.

When I finally made it back to my desk, Dwight pointedly glanced at his watch at my tardiness, giving a little huff of disapproval. I ignored him as best I could, and went back to my list of contacts. After another round of _Dwight's Inferno_, inspiration had struck, and I wandered over to the Reception counter.

"Hey," I said softly. "You wouldn't happen to have any crayons, would you?"

Her eyes widened with amused interest. "I do."

"May I borrow them please?"

She was already digging around in a desk drawer. She put the box of 24 Crayolas on the counter, and I palmed it before slipping it casually into my pants pocket.

"Thanks," I said mysteriously, and took a couple jelly beans for good measure before returning to my chair. Then, I waited. Sure enough, it wasn't long before Dwight rose to go to the bathroom and get his afternoon cup of coffee. Looking around to make sure everyone was occupied, I moved quickly to Dwight's desk. I'd been surreptitiously casing it for an hour, noting that he kept his assorted pens and pencils neatly in a metal pencil cup, and I promptly grabbed them and put them in my empty front pocket. From the other, I produced the unboxed crayons, and put them in the cup. I slid open Dwight's other drawers, grabbing every other writing implement I could find, stuffing them in my pockets.

My coconspirator in Reception suddenly gave a polite cough. I glanced up, and she was nodding almost frantically toward the breakroom door. I slid smoothly back to my chair and picked up my phone, my face blank. Dwight set down his steaming mug and picked up his own phone. Then, the fun began. It was in the middle of a call when he reached for a pen that wasn't there. His annoyance and panic were immediate, but he couldn't react while he had a client on the phone. He searched his desk in vain for anything but a crayon, but he was out of luck.

Desperately, he covered the mouthpiece of his phone and hissed: "Hey, newbie! Where are my goddamn pens?"

I pointedly ignored him, pretending to talk to a client of my own.

He lobbed a crayon at me, which I easily avoided. "Jim!"

I pointed to my phone and shrugged helplessly, continuing to talk nonsense to no one about card stock and paper weights.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Pam was removing the cup of pens that usually sat near the candy on the counter. If I hadn't been in love before…

It was a joy to watch Dwight attempt to fill out his order form in Carnation Pink, which, by the way, was a triplicate carbon form, and I imagined a crayon was too soft to write all the way through. He spun around in his creaky chair and asked Phyllis behind him for a pen, but she was on her own sales call and waved him away in irritation. The cord on his phone was too short for him to beg anyone else or to search for a pen.

Finally, he hung up, and was in the process of rounding on me when his phone rang and he was immediately in the midst of another sale. He filled out two more forms in crayon that he would have to redo later, before he could put his phone down.

He turned to me in barely contained rage.

"Where. The. Hell. Are. My. Pens?" he bit out between clenched teeth.

"I don't know," I said innocently. "Maybe the Deep Purple fairy stole them."

He looked at me like _I_ was the crazy one, ignoring my thinly veiled hint. "You're thinking of sprites, not fairies, or, more specifically, the German Kobolds. And what would they want with my pens? Fairies don't steal things as a rule. Well, sometimes children, but certainly not ball point pens."

"What about the Tooth Fairy?" I countered absurdly. "She comes in the night and takes children's teeth. She leaves the good little boys money. The bad little boys get coal, right?"

"That was Santa Claus, dummy. And he was technically an elf. Don't you know anything?"

I shrugged. He'd opened his mouth, no doubt to continue my education in mythological creatures, when his phone rang again, and in complete resignation, he chose a crayon in blue-green, absently peeling the paper away around the tip for easier writing. I covered my smile, and glanced over at Pam, who was wiping away tears of mirth.

When Dwight left his desk again, I returned his pens—to his drawer.

By the end of the day, he'd found them and began rewriting his order forms. At five o'clock, he rose and did his compulsive desk straightening, then paused to address me.

"Be advised that your pen hiding scheme has already been forgotten. You caused me only a negligible amount of inconvenience."

"What proof do you have it was me?" I asked.

"I knew upon first sight that you were a petty little man, given to passive aggressive behaviors like silly office pranks. I will from now on choose to ignore any and all attempts to get me off my considerable game, so you needn't bother."

Naturally, I took that as a challenge. I made a mental note to pick up several boxes of Jell-O, just in case.

I gave him a cordial smile, however. "And may I offer _you_ some helpful advice?"

"Proceed," he prompted skeptically.

"When someone asks you politely to stop annoying the crap out of them, the human thing to do would be to simply…stop. That's probably the best way to keep away the German Cobalts."

"_Kobolds_," he corrected snidely. "Pick up a book sometime."

"I'll definitely do that," I replied.

As he sauntered importantly away, I called out a pleasant good-night, which was not returned.

"Jeeze," I said, for Pam's benefit. "The rudeness of some people."

To my great delight, she nearly skipped over to my desk, leaning a hip against one corner. On their own accord, my eyes traveled down her body and my breath caught—I hoped she didn't notice. I quickly brought my gaze up to a more appropriate level.

"That was amazing!" she said, those gorgeous hazel eyes shining into mine. Of course, the whole show had been more for her entertainment than for my personal revenge—although that had also been fun.

"It worked out even better than I'd hoped," I admitted proudly. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"That was the most fun I've had here since—well, _ever_."

I smiled and we stared at each other a few heated moments. I imagined rolling my chair in front of her, my hands going to her tiny waist, moving in for a kiss—

She must have seen something in my expression that unsettled her, for suddenly she jumped up and muttered something about shutting out the lights in the Annex. I watched her head for the back of the office while the rest of the remaining employees walked past me, wishing me good night. Michael came out of his office and shook my hand, congratulated me for the two new sales I'd made that day. After a few lame jokes, he said he was heading off to his Improv class.

"See you on the flippity flip," he said, by way of farewell.

I hung back at my desk, pretending to study the paper catalog and price list, but rose to my feet when Pam came back. She seemed surprised to see me there, and for a moment I worried she might think I was some creepy stalker.

"Did you need to stay longer?" she asked. "If so, make sure you turn out the lights and lock the door."

"Oh, uh, no. I was just heading out myself."

"Okay," she said, smiling knowingly. I blushed in embarrassment, but I wasn't sorry I'd waited.

We walked to the elevator together, and as we rode down, there was an awkward silence, but it was also filled with sexual awareness that had my heart racing, my hands clutching my messenger bag in front of me. I held the door to the parking lot open for her. It was getting dark outside, and I didn't like the idea of her walking by herself.

"Mind if I walk you to your car? It's pretty dark out here. They really should put in some more security lights." I hope that put her at her ease. I gave her my most unthreatening expression.

"Sure," she said. "That would be nice."

I walked beside her to a little subcompact.

"Cute car," I said. "I have a Corolla myself." We were both Toyota fans, apparently.

"Cool," she said.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to go out for a drink, but I chickened out at the last minute, telling myself it was too soon.

"Well, thanks for walking me to my car. Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Day Three," I said, stepping back as she opened her door and slid inside.

She seemed almost disappointed that I hadn't asked her out, and I was about to change my mind, but she had already started her car and the moment had sadly passed.

"Good night," she said through her closed window.

"Night," I replied. I watched as she drove away, already missing her.

Tomorrow was Friday, I realized—a much more suitable night for grabbing a drink. Maybe that could lead to dinner or a movie or something. I smiled to myself at what the "or something" could mean. Hell, I'd settle for just talking all night with her, getting to know her better. A kiss would just be a bonus, but I could wait until the time was right for both of us. I knew instinctively that Pam Beesly was a woman worth waiting for.

Damned if I didn't whistle _Smoke on the Water_ on my way to my own car, but this time, I smiled when I realized it.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. I'd love a review, if you are so inclined. I'm already working on chapter 3.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to those who are reading this. I'm going to try to slip in some canon moments, but they might be slightly different, given the new circumstances I've invented. I hope you like what I do.**

**_Chapter 3_**

**_Jim_**

Every morning at about ten, Pam goes to the break room and returns to her desk with a yogurt. The Monday of my second week at Dunder Mifflin, (Friday had come and gone, and I still hadn't summoned the courage to ask her out), when I was putting my ham sandwich in the fridge, I noticed the lone container of mixed berry yogurt on the middle shelf. I imagined what she had looked like yesterday, sitting at her desk, her plastic spoon dipping gingerly inside, how she would tentatively take a bite, savoring. As I stared at the blue foil top of the container, I happened to notice that the expiration date stamped there was from last month. Now, I faced a quandary. How could I tell her her yogurt was bad without sounding like the food police? I decided her health was worth any strange looks, but I would wait until she went to the fridge.

So, not so coincidentally, I went for coffee at a little before ten. Sure enough, she came in the kitchen, and we smiled at each other in passing. She opened the refrigerator door and peered inside, then withdrew the yogurt, totally unaware of the danger that awaited her.

"Hey," I said casually, just as Pam had begun peeling back an edge of the foil lid. "It might sound weird, and I know I have no reason to know this, but that yogurt you're about to eat has expired."

"Huh?" She looked down at the lid in confusion before what I said finally registered. "Oh, wow," she said in disgust, "that's a whole month out of date! I found it in the back of the fridge; I should have checked it." She tossed it into the trash. "Thanks for saving my life!" Her grateful smile was tinged with amusement, and since she'd reserved her look of disgust for the offending yogurt, I considered that a win.

"You're welcome," I said, toasting her with my coffee before taking a tentative sip. "Later today I will be lecturing on the dangers of botulism and out of date Chicken Noodle soup."

She laughed, meeting my eyes, her own softening as she looked at me. I felt warm all over, felt my cheeks redden under her gaze. And then she blushed too, and looked hastily away. _What the hell was that? _Whatever it was, I'd felt it to my toes.

"Well, there goes my midmorning snack," she said with a sigh, and walked past me into the break room. I followed after her like a lovesick puppy. She went to stand in front of the vending machines, sighing in resignation at the yogurt-less selections. I sat at a table to drink my coffee, but of course, it was really just to be near Pam.

"Damn," I heard her mutter under her breath. She'd patted her hips where pockets should have been on her straight little skirt, realizing that she had no money on her. And there I was again, reaching for my wallet and coming to her rescue. I rose and handed her a dollar.

"Oh. You don't have to do that. I have money in my purse back at my—"

"No, please, take it. I feel partially responsible for your sudden lack of snackage."

She grinned. "On the contrary, you came to my rescue, saving me from certain death. But because I'm too lazy to go back to my desk, I will gladly _borrow _your money and pay you back later."

I shrugged, leaving that up to her. I continued to stand beside her, not hiding my interest in watching her insert the dollar and reach up to press the number for French onion Sun Chips. The bag fell to the bottom of the machine with a thud and she collected her purchase.

"Good choice," I said, and moved back to the table.  
"May I join you," she asked politely.

"Absolutely." A quiet moment passed, while she opened her chips and I took another sip of terrible office coffee. Then I said: "By the way, how does yogurt go bad?"

"I know, right? I thought it was basically just sour milk."

I'd been so absorbed with Pam that I hadn't noticed Dwight taking a coffee break at the table on the other end of the room. Pam and I were both startled when we heard his tongue cluck in disapproval.

"You poor, poor city folk—you think food just suddenly appears in your local grocery store as if by magic."

I turned wide eyes his way. "You mean it doesn't?"

"I thought it was the Dairy Fairy," added Pam, humor sparkling in her eyes. I loved how she'd so neatly piggy-backed on my recent discussion of fairies with Dwight. This girl was damned near perfect.

"You're probably thinking of the Scottish broonie, but no, in this case I'm talking about the American farmer."

"Aw," I said, as if he'd imparted the secrets of the universe.

"You scoff, newbie, but someday, when the apocalypse comes, it'll be farmers like me who will be the survivors."

I was about to come back with (I thought) a witty remark about zombies and beets when I felt Pam's bare calf press pointedly against my leg under the table. It was a good thing I hadn't taken a sip of coffee, or I know I'd have been choking on it. My eyes flew to hers and my heart skipped a beat.

"I'm curious, Dwight," she was saying, "how _is _yogurt really made?"

He looked at her skeptically a moment, gauging her sincerity. Then, he launched into a detailed, enthusiastic dissertation on the steps in making your own yogurt. Pam nodded and smiled in encouragement, even asking a thoughtful question or two.

"That's really cool," she said when he finished. "I might actually make it myself sometime."

"Just make sure you get good quality milk to start," Dwight advised. "You're welcome to come out and milk my favorite cow. Just give me at least twenty-four-hours' notice. She will need to be mentally and physically prepared for a new set of hands on her teats."

I narrowly avoided spitting out my coffee at that one.

But Pam smiled warmly at Dwight, and I was amazed to see that he blushed before abruptly rising and pushing back his chair before leaving the breakroom.

"You are a very kind person, Pam Beesly," I said, totally relating to Dwight, having also fallen under this woman's spell.

"He means well."

I smiled as I watched her taking an inordinate amount of time to choosing a chip from her bag, then popping it into her mouth, chewing to hide her embarrassment at my compliment.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

We had just returned to our desks when Michael came out of his office, looking harried.

"I've got to go to Corporate," he told Pam, walking to the coat rack.

"What's going on?" she asked in concern.

"David was very mysterious, but when the big dogs call, you've got to run with the pack." He grinned at his own imagery and moved toward the door, overcoat over his arm. He stopped suddenly and swore, pivoting back toward her.

"Pam, I need you to do me a huge favor."

"Sure, Michael," she said, but I could tell she was dreading whatever he was about to ask.

"It's my Nana's eightieth birthday today, and they're having a big party for her at the retirement village this afternoon. I was supposed to be there and bring her present, but now I won't have time to even stop and buy it. You think you could get it for me and take it by? I'd reward you with the afternoon off."

Her eyes brightened at that. "Sure! What do you want me to buy?"

"She wants one of those mini fridges to have in her room. She claims it's a bother to ask the staff for a cold drink all the time, but I know she just wants a place to keep her wine, which is technically forbidden." He laughed, and everyone within earshot grinned. He reached into his inside suitcoat pocket for his wallet and gave Pam two crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"You should probably be able to get her a pretty nice one with this. Oh, and could you wrap it real nice, maybe with a gigantic bow?"

"Of course," she said, and I could tell she was touched by his thoughtfulness for his grandmother. He told her the address of the retirement home.

"Tell her I'll be over tomorrow with something sweet to put in it." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Okay. Anything else?"

He paused a moment in thought, then glanced at me. "Take Jimbo here with you. Those fridges can be pretty heavy, and you'll need a pack mule."

Not a very complementary characterization, but after giving me bonus time alone with Pam, he could call me anything he wanted.

Dwight immediately jumped to his feet. "I can do it, Michael. Halpert needs to stay here and hone his craft. I'm already totally honed."

"No, Dwight. Let the new guy do the grunt work. It builds character."

Dwight shot me a dirty look, as if I were responsible for Michael's decisions.

"If this means getting the afternoon off, I'll be happy to offer _my_ services," stated Stanley from Accounting.

_Uh-oh_.

I suddenly found myself the object of envy—not a position I wanted to be in as the new guy.

"I don't need the time off," I said, trying to forestall anymore sore feelings. "I'll come back after."

"Whatever," said Michael with a shrug. "Do what you want. I gotta go. Thanks, Pam."

As soon as our boss had left, Pam turned to me. "Sorry," she mouthed.

I rose taking my suitcoat from the back of my chair. "Hey," I said, for her ears only, "it'll be nice to get out for a while."

She programmed the phone at her desk to go to voicemail, and then slipped on her cardigan, grabbing her purse from a drawer. "Shall we?"

In the hallway, she glanced at the neighboring office on our floor: Vance Refrigeration.

"You think they might have a mini-fridge?" she asked.

"Maybe. Wouldn't hurt to ask, I guess."

Turns out they didn't have any on-hand, but they were happy to order. They mainly focused on servicing and installing industrial and commercial refrigeration. Pam politely refused the offer, explaining that we needed it today.

"Well, that was a bust," she said, a little embarrassed.

"Hey, it was an inspired idea. Would have saved us a trip." And besides, I thought happily, this would make our field trip even longer.

We decided to take my car, since the trunk was bigger, and I drove to the big Costco off the interstate. The radio was down low, playing a 3 Doors Down song, and Pam was softly humming along with it. I grinned. It was incredibly nice, being with her like this. I could imagine us doing this a lot.

"I've never been to a Costco," I commented, as we walked from my car to the door of the huge warehouse store.

"Oh, are you in for a treat." I couldn't tell whether she was joking or not. She showed her Dunder Mifflin Costco membership card at the door and we walked in. I grabbed a grocery cart and pushed it, while she walked alongside me. The first thing to catch my eye was a giant display of macaroni and cheese.

"Oh. My. God." You could freakin' buy it by the case. I picked up the big box, testing its weight in my hands.

Pam laughed. "Most everything's in bulk, and really cheap. I usually only come here for supplies for office parties."

"I am so tempted to get this, you don't even know. You think they have Hot Pockets like this, or Ramen Noodles?"

She laughed at my excitement.

"You can buy salad in bulk too, or other fruits and vegetables. Maybe some grilled chicken, or salmon. You know, grown up food?"

I grinned. "You sound like my mom."

She rolled her eyes. "And you sound like a teenage boy."

"Bachelor," I corrected her, "because it's no longer my mom who buys it—an important distinction."

She laughed, then hesitated before saying: "So uh, no girlfriend to try to civilize you?"

She didn't meet my eyes, and when I glanced at her profile, her cheeks were tinged pink. I was stoked to think she might be asking me for personal reasons, rather than idle curiosity.

"No," I answered. "No girlfriend."

She didn't comment further, and didn't give me the chance to ask about her own relationship status. Instead, she picked up her pace and moved ahead of me and the cart.

"Come on," she said, "the small appliances are in the back of the store."

We found a selection of mini fridges, and she inspected each one on display before deciding on the mid-range model. I picked up a boxed one and put it in the cart.

"We need to get some wrapping paper," she said, and I pushed the cart behind her, more than happy to be that pack mule Michael talked about.

After we checked out, I stowed the fridge in the trunk. Pam stood over the open enclosure, staring in dismay at the large box.

"It'll fit," I said.

"It's not that. How the heck am I going to wrap this monster?"

"God knows you bought enough wrapping paper to wrap my entire car if you wanted." I nodded toward the tubes of birthday themed paper that lay alongside the fridge.

"They only had packs of six or twelve," she said defensively. "Anyway, what I meant was it's going to be pretty awkward and difficult to wrap such a big present in the trunk of your car."

"Hmm," I said, tapping my lip in exaggerated thoughtfulness. Then, inspiration struck. I shut the trunk. "Get in. I have an idea."

Five minutes later, I pulled in front of Electric City Duds and Suds.

"A laundromat?" She chuckled. "Very clever, Halpert."

"I have my moments."

I once again retrieved our purchase and walked inside the door Pam held open for me. We were greeted with the usual perfumy smells of laundry detergent and fabric softener and the warmth of dryer heat. It was the middle of a weekday, so the place was empty, except for a dozing man sitting in front of a spinning dryer.

I set the refrigerator box down on a long clothes-folding table, and Pam laid the wrapping paper rolls alongside it. From her purse she retrieved scissors and tape, which she'd thoughtfully thrown in from her office desk.

From there it became a team effort, with my having to lift up or tilt the large box so she could get the paper around it. My other duty was tearing off strips of Scotch tape while she held the paper in place. I was totally enjoying myself, and it wasn't just being in close proximity to a beautiful woman. We laughed—a lot. I was rapidly becoming addicted to her scent, to her warmth, to her humor.

But it was in an unguarded moment, right after she'd said, "Tape me," that my soaring heart suddenly dropped like a rock into my stomach. Her left hand was splayed over the paper, her right held out for the strip of tape she'd asked for. I stared at it: a narrow gold band on her left ring finger. I sharp coldness replaced the excited warmth of my body, and I suddenly couldn't move, or speak.

"Jim," she prompted. "Tape please."

I swallowed over the lump in my throat. Naturally, a woman like her, nearly perfect for me in every way, couldn't possibly be single, right? I mean, that was just too good to be true. Why hadn't I noticed the ring before? My brain kicked in again, and I remembered how her hands were frequently out of view—under a table or desk, or her right hand covering her left, or both hands in her jacket pockets. Had she been purposefully hiding her ring from me? Why hadn't she mentioned a husband, at least in passing?

I cleared my throat before she could say my name again. I nodded toward her hand, and she followed my gaze, guilt washing over her delicate features. Her skin turned pale.

"Hey…are you married?"

Her hands dropped from the box, and she turned away from me a moment.

"Yes," she admitted, and I closed my eyes to hide my disappointment. But then, she turned back to face me. "I mean, no. Not technically." She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, shakily. "I'm a—my husband died. About a year ago."

I really hoped my face didn't show relief at her obviously painful confession.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself saying, focusing on her stricken face while trying desperately to school my own expression.

She shook her head. "_I'm_ sorry I didn't mention it before. It's just…hard to talk about still."

I nodded. "I can understand that." But how could I, really?

I had a million questions, and I discarded each as it occurred to me. I didn't want to seem nosey, or rude, or insensitive. I resigned myself to leaving it up to her to tell me what she wanted to about her late husband. Mainly, I wanted to know if she was ready to date again, and I felt like a total heel for even thinking the question. Feeling suddenly guilty, I made the conscious effort to stop thinking of myself and noted how her eyes were watering a bit with the pain of her own thoughts. She must have really loved him. As much as I wanted her for myself, I felt incredibly sad for what she had likely been going through. She was too young to be a widow.

On impulse, I pulled her gently into my arms; like most men, I couldn't stand to see a woman cry. She only hesitated a moment before responding to my embrace by tightening her arms about my waist. I murmured what I hoped were comforting words into her soft hair, and her petite body shook a little with her weeping. She laid her head against my chest, and I vowed I would hold her like that forever if she needed me to. No way she couldn't hear the rapid pounding of my heart.

_Forever_ turned out to be only about five minutes, and she pulled away, embarrassed by her display.

"That was very unprofessional," she said, her voice thick with tears. She reached into her jacket pocket for a wrinkled Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes, daintily blew her nose. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, but she still looked incredibly beautiful to me.

"Don't worry about it," I said softly. "I feel like we're becoming friends, don't you? And friends can literally cry on each other's shoulders, right?"

She smiled, even laughed a little beneath her tissue. "I suppose so." She frowned then when she noticed the front of my shirt. I followed her gaze, saw the damp spot from her tears, the bit of watery black from her mascara.

She reached into her pocket for another Kleenex, and began blotting my shirt.

"Dammit. If that doesn't come out, let me know. I'll buy you a new shirt."

I smiled gently at her, stilling her hand on my chest. I wondered if she could feel my heart, still galloping at her touch. "I'm sure it'll come out in the wash."

She looked up into my eyes, and I saw there a mixture of gratitude and the remnants of embarrassment. I hoped my own eyes didn't show how much I wanted to kiss her in that moment. I squeezed her hand and she slid it from beneath mine. Then, with a deep sigh, she turned back to the half-wrapped package.

"You are such a kind person, Jim Halpert," she said, throwing back my words from earlier that day. I smiled, my body growing warm once more.

Wordlessly, I handed her a piece of tape.

**A/N: Next chapter will be from Pam's perspective. I'm thinking of posting this story also at MTT, which I recently discovered, so don't be surprised if you see it there too. Thanks again for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry this is so late in coming. I was out of town for a few days and this is the first I've had to sit and write. I hope it was worth the wait.**

**Chapter 4**

**_Pam_**

The ride to Nana's retirement home was a quiet one, with Jim only asking the address that Michael had given me before both of us lapsed into a tense silence. It was weird. We'd been all right in the laundromat as we'd finished wrapping the fridge, and while I'd felt physically and mentally shaken after our hug and cry, I thought we had worked our way back to comfortable. I guess that since the car lacked the soothing white noise of a clothes dryer, it was as if we were at a loss as to how to act now.

For my part, I kept reliving the moments where he'd held me in his arms, the comfort I'd felt surrounded by the warmth and strength of his tall frame. And he'd smelled so good-clean linen, deodorant, the now familiar light citrus of his cologne. It had been so long since anyone had embraced me, that it had been difficult to move away.

Jim pulled into the parking lot of Oak Crossings Retirement Village and turned off the engine. I felt him looking over at me, and the awkwardness must have been too much for him.

"You okay?" he asked hesitantly.

I felt I owed him a smile, so I gave him one, albeit sheepish. "Yeah. Sorry."

"You already apologized, and there was no need for the first time. It's forgotten, okay. Let's just say you owe me a crying shoulder when I need it sometime. Deal?" He held out his hand.

My grin grew genuine. "Deal," I said, shaking his hand. His was so large that my small one nearly disappeared as he grasped it warmly. I felt a jolt and met his eyes, and for a brief moment I thought about leaning over and kissing that beautiful mouth of his. He'd felt it too, and his eyes widened briefly before blinking and slipping his hand from mine. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Not that I am a crier or anything," he added dryly, "except for those Kleenex commercials, but I usually watch those in the privacy of my own home, so…"

I laughed, and our eyes connected again across the console, his soft and alight with gentle humor.

It wouldn't take much for me to fall head-over-heels for this man. The unbidden thought brought heat to my cheeks, and I looked hastily away, reaching for the door handle.

"Hey, Nana's waiting," I said abruptly. I was already out of the car when he swung his long legs out on his side.

We made our entrance into the retirement home, Jim once again carrying the festively wrapped box, complete with the giant bow Michael had requested. The receptionist smiled at our appearance. "You must be here for Mrs. Scott's birthday party," she said.

"Well, sort of," I said. "We're actually just dropping this off for her grandson, Michael. He couldn't be here because of an unexpected business trip."

She frowned. "Oh, she'll be so disappointed. Nice of you to bring her gift anyway. She'll be so excited. Follow me. The party's in the rec room."

We could hear the music before we even reached the large common area—a mellow slow song by The Everly Brothers. Someone had decorated the place like a fifties sock hop, complete with streamers and records hanging from the ceiling, and a big, glittery _Happy 80th Birthday_ sign. An orderly in scrubs, a leather jacket, and slicked back hair manned the stereo in the corner, and a table along one wall was laden with finger sandwiches, a three-tiered birthday cake, and a punch bowl. The lights were dim and the open floor was filled with elderly couples dressed in very authentic looking sharkskin suits and poodle skirts, holding each other close as they swayed to the music. Those who couldn't dance sat in chairs on the outskirts of the dance floor, a few in wheelchairs, tapping their feet. It was adorable.

"Oh my God," I heard Jim exclaim next to me. I glanced at him and his smile was as wide as mine was. It was like we'd stepped back in time. The receptionist led us to the gift table, and Jim set the box down among the gift bags and other wrapped presents. Mrs. Scott seemed to be very popular, if the number of gifts was any indication, not to mention that the room was packed. Everyone in the retirement home must be in attendance.

"Do you know Mrs. Scott?" our guide asked, leaning closer so we could hear. I guess in a retirement home, the music had to be pretty loud.

"No," I said. "Could you introduce us? I want to pass on Michael's regrets."

She led us to a lovely, dignified, white-haired lady, her red skirt puffed out with petticoats, her feet clad in bobby socks and black and white saddle shoes. Michael had her sparkling eyes.

"Mrs. Scott, these are friends of your grandson's."

"I'm Pam, and this is Jim," I supplied. "Michael is so sorry he couldn't make it, but we've brought your present. We just wanted to let you know how disappointed he was to miss your birthday. He said he'll come by tomorrow with the rest of your gift."

Mrs. Scott took my hand between her thin, though surprisingly strong fingers.

"Pam? From the telephone where Michael works? Well, aren't you sweet, to come all this way. And Michael too, to think of me." She shook her head at the thought of her grandson. "That boy…he arranged this party and everything. A shame he's missing it." Then her eyes rested on Jim, having to crane her neck to take in his impressive height.

"My, aren't you a tall drink of champagne! You remind me of my Arthur—so tall, and lanky as a bean pole. Jimmy was it?"

He didn't correct her, but took her fragile hand gently in his, smiling what I thought was his most devastating smile. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Scott."

"Oh my! Isn't he a charmer! And so handsome! I bet you're beating the girls off with a stick over this one."

"Oh no—" I began, embarrassed to explain we weren't together.

"It's the other way around, believe me," Jim interrupted, catching my eye, encouraging me to go along with the ruse. He stood pointedly closer to me. "I've got to watch the men every minute with her around." He winked at me conspiratorially.

Mrs. Scott laughed with glee. "Oh, I can see you _both_ have your hands full! Such a lovely couple."

I smiled, my heartrate definitely increasing at the teasing looks Jim was sending my way. Mrs. Scott was so right about his charm—it fairly oozed from his every pore.

"Well, enjoy your party," I said, glancing toward the doorway, "and we hope you have a happy birthday! It was so nice finally meeting you in person."

She looked genuinely disappointed.

"You can't go so soon! You must stay for dancing and cake. Please. This place needs an infusion of young blood, what with all these old fogies. Besides, you wouldn't dare leave before I get a chance to try Jimmy's moves out on the dance floor. I'm the birthday girl, and I insist."

Jim looked over at me and shrugged slightly: it was up to me, apparently.

I laughed. "Oh, okay, for a little while. Thank you."

The slow dance over, a hoppin' Buddy Holly number began, and we were pleasantly surprised to see some of the couples alternately jitterbugging and swing dancing. Mrs. Scott grabbed Jim's hand. "Let's go, lover boy!"

I laughed at his deer in headlights expression, but he let her pull him out onto the dance floor, and give him a lesson or two in swing. He was certainly no Fred Astaire, but he held his own with Nana, and they both were breathless and smiling before the end of the song. I hadn't enjoyed watching anything so much in years. He escorted Mrs. Scott back to a chair, and I joined her, while Jim went off in search of punch.

"Oh my," she said, fanning herself with her hand. "That man has got it in spades. You hold onto _him_, Missy."

"We're not really together you know," I said wistfully.

Nana glanced my way in disbelief. "I would never have guessed. You two have enough sparks between you to light up my birthday cake. My advice—don't let him slip away. Life is too short, let me tell you. I'd give anything in the world to have my Arthur here celebrating with me."

I rested my hand on her frail upper arm. "I'm so sorry he isn't. I—I lost my husband about a year ago. It's been very hard…"

I didn't know why I was confessing to her. Maybe I missed my own grandmother in that moment, far away in upstate New York. She met my misty eyes with concern.

"I'm so sorry, Pam. How young you are to know such loss. But I want you to know that it's okay. To move on, I mean. To find someone new." She nodded to a handsome, courtly gentlemen in a blue suit, who was talking to the DJ/orderly.

"That's Harrison. I met him when I moved in here two years ago. I had been without my Arthur for ten years. I'd grieved and resigned myself to living the rest of my life alone. Harrison had lost his wife, and we'd both been afraid and guilty to love again. Let me save you years of grief, dearie. You will never forget your husband, and you shouldn't, but if he really loved you, he would want you to move on, not waste your life living in the past, afraid to live your life. Jim is a keeper; I can just tell, and if the way he dances is any indication, you will never be unhappy in the bedroom." She waggled her eyebrows ala Michael Scott, and I flushed in surprise.

"Mrs. Scott!"

She laughed at my expression, patting my hand, but became serious once again. "Don't let fear keep you from the happiness you both deserve."

Harrison and Jim arrived back at our chairs at the same time, Jim delivering small cups of sparkling red punch to us ladies, while Mrs. Scott introduced the men. When an old Platters song came on, _Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, _Harrison held out his hand to Mrs. Scott, and they moved gracefully onto the dance floor. Jim sat next to me, watching the elderly dancers for a moment. He glanced sideways at me, and I ached for him to ask me, petrified at the same time that he would.

He gently nudged my arm with his. "Wanna dance, Beesly?"

I smiled and found myself saying yes. We rose, and I took his hand, noting that it was slightly damp; he was nervous too. _About me?_ As we took to the floor, my hands came up to his broad shoulders, and his settled at my waist. I looked up into his eyes, captivated by the way he was looking back at me. He smiled a little in shared wonder, and I marveled at how surreal this all was: dancing in the middle of the day with a gorgeous, wonderful man to one of the best songs ever written.

The DJ must have taken the hint, since the dance floor was almost full now, with sweet older couples gently swaying to the popular music of their day. He played another slow dance, this time, Elvis's _Are You Lonesome Tonight?_ As the music took me to a simpler time, I fairly melted into Jim, my cheek resting for the second time that day on his chest, and I felt like crying again but for a completely different reason. If he could read my mind, he'd think I was totally crazy, but I felt the tears well, this time in relief, and a tentative happiness.

His hands slid up my back, pulling me closer, and I was glad I'd taken off my cardigan so I could better feel the warmth of his touch. I casually squeezed his biceps, pleased to feel the lean muscle there, even beneath his suit coat. I wondered if he played basketball; he had the height and the easy movement for it. His heart was beating strongly beneath my ear, and I sighed and nuzzled closer until the last strains of the guitar faded away. A faster song followed, and we were still slowly swaying for a few moments into it, still within our warm little cocoon.

"Hey," he said, and I felt the rumble of the word more than heard it. I lifted my head and looked around, disoriented, as the other dancers did an impressive version of the twist. "You want to dance to this?"

I laughed and shook my head. "Too adventurous for me," I said, and he nodded in agreement.

"Let's get some sandwiches; I'm starving."

We hung around the refreshment table for a little while, enjoying the food and the show on the dance floor. Neither of us could believe the stamina of these older people. After two more songs, the DJ took a break to announce it was time for the cake. Mrs. Scott blew out the candles, and we helped serve.

I caught Jim glancing at his watch in surprise. "I guess I'm taking the afternoon off after all," he said.

"I'm sorry. Did you want to go back to work?"

He grinned. "Not really. I'm definitely enjoying this more than selling paper—not that I'm not grateful for the job—"

I smirked. "You don't have to explain to me; I won't tell Michael."

"And as fun as this is, I'd really like to get some real food. Tiny sandwiches and a small slice of cake are not hitting the spot. You want to go get something?"

"Sure!"

After I grabbed my sweater, we made our way through the throngs of admirers to Mrs. Scott, again wishing her a happy birthday and thanking her for letting us crash her party.

"You come back and see me anytime," she said, holding my hands. "And tell that grandson of mine I'll save him some cake."

I found myself encased in a lavender scented hug, and she reiterated her earlier words not to let Jim get away. She gestured for Jim to bend down, where she kissed one of his cheeks while patting the other. He blushed and kissed her back on the temple, much to her delight and my amusement.

"You are definitely a charmer, Jimmy. Take good care of this girl."

"I will," he said, and his simple promise made me feel warm all over. He took my hand to pull me through the dancers toward the exit, but he didn't let go until he stopped at the passenger side of his car. He smiled a little shyly, the light breeze ruffling his tousled hair.

"That was awesome," he said. "Those folks knew how to party didn't they?"

"Yes. It's been a long time since I danced like that."

"Me too—maybe senior prom?"

I laughed, and while I felt the fleeting twinge of loss when I remembered that Roy had been my date back then, for once I could think of him without total sadness. There had been plenty of good times with him, and those are the things I should remember, not the pain of his passing.

"Mrs. Scott is a very wise woman," I said.

"Oh?"

I grinned. "Too bad her grandson didn't inherit her common sense."

"Beesly!" he said, in feigned shock. Then: "What did she say?"

I took a shaky breath and looked him directly in the eyes. "She told me not to waste my life living in the past."

He nodded. "Good advice."

I felt the now familiar thrill of awareness wash over me, and we stood there, gazes locked, for countless seconds. In the afternoon sunlight, his eyes looked a pale sage green, the beginnings of stubble darkening his cheeks beneath the faint blush of male interest. His lips looked full and kissable, and he must have seen me glance at them, for his pupils darkened perceptibly and he leaned slightly closer.

_Too fast_, I thought. My face hot, my heart racing, I smiled shakily and reached for the car door.

"Let's get something to eat, Halpert."

He stood there a moment in a seeming daze, before remembering his manners and shutting the door for me.

By the time he got in the car, we both had calmed a bit. He glanced at me with his brightest smile. "Where to?"

"You decide. I'm not hungry for anything in particular. I did just have three finger sandwiches…"

"I, however, am still a growing boy," he teased.

"Grow any more and you won't be able to get into your car."

He chuckled, and pulled out onto the street. The tension still simmered between us, but on the back burner now, and we laughed and chatted easily as he got onto the freeway for a few minutes before taking a familiar exit. He drove past several chain restaurants before stopping in front of Chili's.

I shook my head in amusement. Of all the places…

"Is this okay? I know they have a huge menu, since you weren't sure what you wanted…"

"Yeah. It's fine. Their fajitas are really good."

He looked skeptical that I was telling the truth, but since there were no objections, he shrugged in resignation and we both got out of the car. The lunch rush seemed to have subsided, and we were seated almost immediately in a small booth near a window. I ordered the fajitas for one, and he ordered a burger and fries. We both got Cokes, though I really could have used a beer.

"We have the Dundees here every year," I said.

He raised a curious eyebrow. "Is that an appetizer? I didn't see it on the menu."

I grinned. "Nope. It's an award for goofy things at the office that Michael gives out. It's not really that big of a deal to most of us—we just come for the free meal and booze."

He thought a moment. "Dundees…as in Emm_ys_, Gramm_ys_? After Dunder Mifflin, I presume?"

"Very astute. But it's not usually for any particular accomplishments workwise; Michael just has fun attempting to show off his own cleverness."

"Have you ever won?"

"Oh yeah. I got the Debby Downer award two years running, plus, Longest Engagement those same two years—though technically Roy was the recipient."

Jim's smile had faded. "Your husband's name was Roy."

I guess that was the first time I'd said his name in front of Jim. "Yes. He worked at Dunder Mifflin too; down in the warehouse." But I couldn't bring myself to tell him more.

"If being here brings back too many memories…" I could tell now he'd felt bad for bringing me here. I didn't want him to feel like he always had to walk on eggshells around me.

"Don't worry about it. I can't escape those. I still work at the same place, so I'm used to it. Anyway, funny thing about the long engagement award. The second time Michael gave it out, it led to Roy and I having this huge fight afterwards. Roy almost quit, he was so mad at Michael. But I finally summoned the courage to give Roy an ultimatum about setting a date for our wedding. We got married six months later."

I allowed myself a small smile of victory at the memory, and was pleased my eyes didn't water that much in the telling. I pushed away the thought that had I let Roy quit that day, maybe he'd still be alive.

Jim had watched the expressions probably playing over my face, and at my last thought, he reached across the table and put his hand over mine. I was glad he didn't say anything, because I'm pretty sure I might have been unable to hold it together in the glow of his sympathy.

We were interrupted by the arrival of our lunch, and, the uncomfortable moment gone, we dug. I regaled Jim with the hits of Dundees past, and he spoke about his last job in marketing.

"Someday I want to have my own business, be my own boss and hand out my own cheesy awards," he told me. "I've had a few ideas over the years, but I don't know what exactly I want to do yet. Besides, businesses take money, which at the moment I'm fresh out of, especially with a couple student loans left to pay off…"

"I have no doubt it'll come to you. And being a receptionist isn't exactly my dream job either. What I'd really like to do is go to art school."

"You totally should," he said. "It's important to love what you do—or so I hear."

We both smiled wryly at that.

It was three o'clock when we finished our leisurely lunch, and I was feeling pleasantly like I had been playing hooky all day—something I'd never really done in high school. Despite the emotional breakdown in the laundromat, I was feeling pretty damn good, and it was in no small part due to the company. The more time I spent with him, the more emotional trouble I knew I was in. In Jim's presence, I was able to push away the feeling that I was cheating on my husband, and I knew I would likely suffer for that later, but I was having such a good time I allowed myself a respite, just for the afternoon, Angela be damned.

As we drove back toward the office, Jim seemed a little agitated.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"Well…I really hate that it looked to the others at work that Michael was giving me special treatment. I've seen how resentments in the workplace can make life miserable, making it impossible to trust anyone."

I nodded, wanting to tell him to hell with the jealous idiots, but what he said was very true, especially with some of the petty people we worked with.

"I have an idea," I said. "Swing by Merritt's Bakery. If there's anything that'll soothe those savage beasts, it's cookies."

"Seriously?"

"Trust me."

When we came back to the office, a big box of pastries, brownies and cookies in tow, all was totally forgiven. Jim had even sprung for a gallon of milk to go with it, and we all laughed and joked around the conference table, as we nibbled on Jim's peace offering. He followed me back to the kitchen, where I'd made a fresh pot of coffee for those who'd requested it, and began filling mugs and placing them on a tray.

I felt Jim's breath near my shoulder, stirring my hair, and I looked up into sparkling hazel eyes.

"You were right. I think I'm out of the doghouse now, especially with Stanley. Even Dwight seemed more civil. Thanks, Pam."

Before I knew what was happening, his lips had brushed my cheek, so lightly and so quickly that I might have imagined it, except for the small spot on my skin that would tingle for several minutes afterwards. I turned to see the kitchen door close behind him, and I paused, praying that my hands would stop shaking. There was no way I could have carried a tray of hot coffee in that condition.

**A/N: So glad you're still out there reading. Thank you! And I'd love to hear your thoughts.**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm so grateful for those who continue to read.

Now, things start to heat up…

**Chapter 5**

**_Jim_**

The day after Nana Scott's birthday party, it was very hard to get any work done. I kept looking over at Pam and remembering, well, _everything_. I couldn't seem to concentrate, or stop smiling, or stop looking at her. Even Dwight's annoying ways and squeaking chair didn't bother me—well, not as much anyway. The whole damn day was on a permanent loop in my head-from our yogurt conversation, to Costco, to the laundromat, to our dance, to Chili's, to afternoon cookies and milk, to the feel of her soft cheek beneath my lips. It all seemed so perfect in my mind, even the brief devastation I'd felt when I noticed her wedding ring had been short-lived, because I got to hold her afterwards, as selfish and weird as that sounds.

God, she was so beautiful, and funny, and kind, and interesting, and complex. Did I mention beautiful? Just looking at her made my heart pound, and touching her—_God_, it almost felt like dying, but in a totally wonderful way. But as much as I wanted her, and as close as we seemed to become in the space of one day, I knew I had to go slow with her. She was still grieving, despite her spoken desire not to live in the past. She still wore her dead husband's ring for God's sake—still had it on the day after our perfect time together. I know what you're thinking: maybe it wasn't as perfect for _her_. She obviously was going through an emotional upheaval. I could tell she felt guilty and sad and probably confused. If I pushed her too hard, I might very well push her away.

And yet, I knew her reaction to me wasn't all in my head. That confusion—well, it came from a woman whose body and mind were likely at war. I'm no Casanova, but I also haven't exactly been a monk, so I can tell when a woman is interested. She blushed around me—_a lot_, and when I took her hand, sometimes it trembled. She'd hugged me and held my hand and danced with me and didn't slap me when I kissed her cheek, and I caught her on more than one occasion checking me out, even once looking at my lips before she hastily looked away. In my book, those were all pretty promising signs.

I made an effort late that morning to at least try to get in a sales call or two, but in the middle of my first call, Dwight's chair squeaked so loudly when he got up that it interrupted my flow with the potential client and made everyone within hearing distance alternately groan and yell at him to get some WD-40 already. I apologized to the lady on the phone and asked if I could call back.

"My chair is nobody's business," Dwight said under his breath, brushing them off and continuing on his way to the break room.

Without a second thought, I reached for my messenger bag at my feet and pulled out that magical elixir of the Lubricant Gods and bent to spray the underside of Dwight's chair where the pole swiveled. I spun it experimentally, gave another spray for good measure, and casually returned to my chair…amidst grateful applause.

I caught Pam's eyes, pleased to see she was smiling broadly, her hands clapping along with the others. I felt my face flush a little at her approval. I turned to my public and inclined my head slightly in acknowledgement of their high praise, and picked up my phone to return my call.

A few minutes later, Dwight returned with a cup of coffee, and the moment he sat in his chair, his nose flared at the familiar scent (to most men) of WD-40, detectable even over the smell of fresh coffee. I watched him swivel experimentally, and hearing no squeaking, he stood and loudly addressed the entire bullpen.

"Okay, who did it? Who violated my privacy and invaded my space with no permission?"

I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece to try to muffle his meltdown, tried to close the sale.

"That squeaking was driving all of us crazy," said Phyllis. "I wish I'd thought of it myself."

"Well, I happened to like it; it helped me concentrate."

And ironically, _my _concentration was broken, because I'm pretty sure my potential client on the phone had asked me a question that I hadn't heard. Hoisted on my own petard, I suppose.

"Look," she was saying, "you obviously have something going on there that sounds more important. Call me again sometime when you can focus on our conversation. In the meantime, I think I'll go with Prince Paper. Have a good day."

"Wait, please—" I began, but she'd already hung up. I sat for a moment, shocked and furious. I set down the receiver and tried to control my unusual flair of anger.

"Oh, sit down," said Stanley to Dwight in annoyance. "At least now maybe the rest of us can concentrate."

Even Dwight backed down, with all the expectant glares directed at him, and he slowly sank back down into his now noiseless chair. He turned to look at me.

"I know it was you, Halpert. This violation will not go unnoticed…or unpunished."

"Believe me, I already feel punished," I said. "I've been punished for days."

I took a deep breath and turned away from him, shutting out the rest of his muttered threats, only to see that Pam had been watching the entire exchange with sympathy and concern. She raised her eyebrows, as if silently asking: _are you okay?_

I shrugged, giving her my most exaggerated sad clown expression.

She laughed, and my anger melted away. God, how did she do that?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At lunch, Pam and I sat together at one of the small round tables in the break room, and she high-fived me at my morning's success. Dwight had continued to shoot daggers at me with his eyes across our desks, refusing to answer me, even when I asked him a question about card stock prices. Clearly, he hadn't had the benefit of Pam's laughter to take away his anger. Don't get me wrong—I hadn't forgiven him for making me lose a client, and his continued sulking seemed over-the-top in reaction to my drive-by lube job. Well, if he wanted to punish me further, keeping this going, I was more than happy to oblige him.

"Hey, I'm gonna need a little help with phase two of Operation Dwight-Out. Are you in?"

She chuckled. "There's a phase two?" I loved how her eyes shone with excitement at my including her in the conspiracy.

"Yep. I wasn't sure there would be, but I somehow guessed he'd take my help as an insult, so I planned ahead. I figured he should experience just a small taste of his own medicine."

"Oh, I am so in."

"Cool," I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I have to admit, I tended to enjoy myself way too much with my childish pranks, but Dwight just made it so easy not to feel guilty about them. And his reactions were so enjoyable that I knew there was potential there for my addiction. So, when he spent the rest of the afternoon tearing apart his desk for a non-existent cricket (courtesy of three remote controlled Sound Box 2000 devices, whose tiny speakers were strategically placed in various locations around his desk and under his chair) it was difficult not to feel almost high by the end of the day. Two of the three remotes were safely in my pants pockets, and one was operated by Pam at her desk, and we'd surreptitiously push the buttons at odd intervals, allowing the cheerful, "crickety" sounds to annoy the living hell out of him.

Pam had helped me by distracting Dwight while I planted the speakers, or warning him of his return to his desk. By two o'clock, they were all in place, and the fun began.

At one point, Michael came out of his office to find Dwight opening his drawers in frustration, armed with a can of bug spray from the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing, Dwight?"

"There's a goddamn cricket that won't stop his infernal chirping."

Michael shuddered. "Eww. Well, it's probably more afraid of you than you are of it."

"I'm not afraid of the little bastard; I just want him obliterated from the face of the earth."

"Well that's kinda harsh," I couldn't resist saying. Dwight ignored me, and I grinned.

"Okay…well, don't let Jiminy Cricket distract you from work all day, Pinocchio," said Michael. "Ha-ha."

Michael turned his attention to me. "How's it going Jim-iny? See what I did there, Dwight?"

I smiled pleasantly, enjoying Dwight's frowning at the attention his idol was casting my way.

"Doing great, Michael," I said, "or should I say, _Geppetto_?"

Michael laughed, and I was glad he picked up the hint. "Good comparison, Jim, because as you know, I _am_ the puppet master around here." And to prove it, he contorted his hands up and down over Dwight's head to look like he was holding his strings.

I heard Pam's quickly muffled giggle behind me and I turned to give her a conspiratorial grin. Michael laughed again and went on his way to the bathroom, whistling _I Got No Strings _from the Disney movie.

"Hey, Dwight," I whispered. "Maybe someday _you'll_ become a real boy."

"Shove it, Jim," he said.

I stood then and moseyed over to Reception, sneaking a couple of jelly beans as a cover, when all I really wanted to do was bask in our shared success—oh yeah, and her attention.

"Having fun?" she asked.

"Loads," I said dryly. "Tomorrow, should the sound du jour be a whistle, a scream, or the perennial favorite, flatulence?"

"You should give him a day or two off, to avoid suspicion."

"Don't go all soft on me, Beesly. You should have heard him threatening under his breath to do me bodily harm."

"_Who's_ soft?" she countered, hitting the remote on her desk that had Jiminy chirping from beneath Dwight's desk.

When he bumped his head and swore, while clamoring under his desk, I gave her my best _I'm not worthy_ bow.

"That's what I thought," she said, and I couldn't help laughing, our eyes meeting over the counter. Something happened that made us both stop, the tension between us thick and hot, our smiles simultaneously fading. Somehow, I knew she was remembering yesterday, our dances, our hug…my kiss.

I swallowed hard and l was the one to look away first, the weight of the moment almost too much to bear. I tapped twice on the counter and smiled shakily.

"Guess I'd better try to get some work done."

"Okay," she whispered.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

But my determination to get back to business was short lived, and by four I was about to climb the walls. I was constantly aware of her presence only feet away, and I knew I had to get ahold of myself and try to control this—whatever _this_ was. I got up to go to the vending machines, and as I stood in front of the sodas, mentally debating the merits of grape soda and Coke, Angela suddenly appeared beside me. Since I'd never seen her eat more than carrot sticks and an apple, I was immediately suspicious of her sudden fascination with the snack machine.

"She wears a wedding ring, you known," she said softly. I glanced over and down at her tiny form, amazed that such a tiny person could wield so much gravitas.

I hesitated a moment in surprise. "I know," I finally managed. "She's a widow."

Angela nodded. "She also has a cat to think of, just so you know."

I punched the button for grape soda with a little more force than necessary, annoyed by her interference.

"I _love_ cats," I lied, or rather, exaggerated. Actually, I was pretty indifferent to the feline world.

"Well that's one point in your favor I suppose," she said haughtily. She turned away from the machine to face me, looking up into my eyes with murder in her own. "But be warned, Jim Halpert, if you hurt her, or in any way corrupt her, or her cat, you'll have _me _to answer to."

I wasn't even tempted to laugh, despite her diminutive height. This woman scared the hell out of me. Still, I had my pride, and she didn't even know me.

"I wouldn't dream of hurting her," I said tightly, though I worked hard to keep my face pleasant. "And I think what Pam does isn't up to either of us, is it?"

She lifted her nose into the air and turned on her heel. She hadn't bought a thing. I watched her leave through the kitchen, a little shaken by her unwarranted malice, only to find Pam standing in the other doorway. She couldn't have missed Angela leaving.

"What was that about?" she asked me, her eyes cold, though I didn't feel like her anger was directed at me.

"She was just being protective of you," I said diplomatically. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Oh, really?"

And without another word she followed Angela into the kitchen, where the blonde had disappeared into the restroom.

I wasn't about to stick around for that. I had a feeling it would give a whole new meaning to the phrase, _cat fight_, and I was sure I didn't want to witness that, so I hightailed it back to my desk.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Pam emerged about fifteen minutes later, red faced and teary eyed. She walked quickly past me and out the front door of the office. I waited two seconds and followed, worried at how upset she'd seemed. I saw the door to the stairwell close, and I got to it in a few long strides, her footsteps echoing somewhere above me. She was going _up?_

"Pam!" I called. Her steps halted, and after a moment resumed, this time coming back down toward the second-floor landing.

"Are you okay?" I asked, angry again at Angela for putting tears in those beautiful eyes.

I watched her walk back down to me, her blotchy face making me want to go back and give Angela a piece of my mind. Pam stopped on the landing and looked up at me, her eyes welling again. Then, to my surprise, she wrapped her arms around my waist, crying again against my chest the second day in a row. My arms enfolded her, and I was suffused with the familiar sweetness of summer roses.

"Why does she have to be so freakin' mean," Pam said haltingly between sobs, and I couldn't help smiling tenderly into her hair at her eighth-grade slang.

"She probably thinks I'm hitting on you, and that you're pretty vulnerable right now."

"It's none of her damn business."

"I said as much."

She pulled away to look up at me. "I'm sorry she spoke to you about this. I—I think she's jealous that I've made a new friend. She and I have gotten closer since Roy died; she even gave me a cat. But she has some pretty old-fashioned ideas about what is proper and how I should be grieving."

"I got that," I said. I brushed a wayward lock of her bangs out of her eyes.

"She doesn't understand that I will always love Roy, I'll always miss him, but I can't bring him back, and I deserve to find happiness."

"Yes, you do," I whispered. "Whenever you're ready."

I waited several quick heartbeats, holding my breath as I watched the indecision play over her features. I actually saw the determination in her eyes the instant before she put her hands on my shoulders and tiptoed up to press her lips to mine. Even though I knew what was coming, I couldn't help the gasp that came from my throat at the first touch of her trembling lips. In hindsight, I should have let her be the one to set the pace, to explore at her leisure, but it was as if she'd opened the floodgates, and I couldn't hold back my response to her tentative touch.

My hands came up to her face, and I tilted my head to better fit my mouth to hers. I felt her hands glide up my chest to slide into my hair, her nails giving me chills as she pulled me closer still. I breathed her in, learning the sensual shape of her lips before my tongue slipped out to swipe over the seam of her mouth. She opened for me, and as I tasted the saltiness of her tears, our tongues tangling passionately, I knew I was forever lost.

My mind went completely blank, and all that existed in my world was her hot, wet mouth beneath mine, and the heaven of her firm, high breasts pressing against my thundering heart.

**A/N: I struggled with whether this was too soon for them, but then again, they're both single, so…Anyway, this definitely won't be as easy as it seems. Next up, Pam's POV. Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**_Pam_**

Kissing Jim felt a lot like when I was consumed by my painting—exciting, freeing, intoxicating—and I didn't want to stop for anything. Roy had never kissed me like that, with no endgame in mind, like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't get enough of just my mouth. I hadn't taken this much pleasure in mere kissing since-well, since Roy and I had first made out as teenagers. But even then, I hadn't felt this heady sensation, this _aroused_, maybe because when I was fifteen I hadn't known then what a man could do to a woman with a mouth like his. Honestly, I still didn't _know,_ because there had only been Roy, and while Roy had eventually figured out how to give me pleasure, something told me Jim would know instinctively from the start.

And this was the thought that made me finally tear my mouth away from Jim's with a gasp, the guilt of my comparison threatening to overwhelm me. We were both breathing heavily, his eyes dark and a bit dazed, hair disheveled from my fingers, lips red and swollen. I'm sure I looked much the same.

"I'm sorry," I panted. "I—"

"Don't be," he said, one large hand resting on my cheek. "The last thing I want is to push you. If this isn't what you want, if it's still too soon…"

I closed my eyes, willing my heart to slow down so I could breathe, so I could speak coherently.

"It isn't that, exactly. I—" I paused, forced myself to be brave enough to meet his eyes. "I'd been with Roy for a long time, and I can't help…comparing…"

His eyes widened at this, and I knew immediately he was thinking I'd found him lacking. His hand dropped and he stepped away. I stumbled a little at the loss of contact, of the stability of his tall, strong body.

"Oh," he said, his eyes guarded now.

"No, please don't think—that's not what I meant."

He raised a questioning eyebrow and waited for me to explain.

Unfortunately, before I could, the second-floor stairwell door opened, and Dwight appeared. He frowned suspiciously at us.

"Michael sent me to find you, Pam. The phone is ringing off the hook."

"Shit," I said under my breath, eliciting a surprised grin from Jim. I'd been so upset by Angela that I hadn't stopped to send calls to voice mail. "I'm coming," I said, and brushed past Dwight to go out the door.

"I don't think this was a scheduled break," he said as the door closed behind me.

I sat at my desk just as the phone rang again. Everyone in the bullpen was looking at me now, as if they'd been waiting for my return since the phone had gone unanswered for the past ten minutes.

"Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam." I hope no one noticed how my voice quavered a little.

My hands flew to my hair self-consciously, and I attempted without a mirror to smooth it down. I knew my cheeks must be flushed with embarrassment and residual desire. It was mortifying, especially when Dwight returned with a knowing smirk on his face and plopped back down in his desk chair. I was very conscious of Jim's empty seat, but was glad he hadn't returned yet. That would have been so _obvious_.

With an unusual flash of cruelty, I pressed the cricket button, causing Dwight to swear loudly and go for his desk drawers again. After I transferred the sales call to Stanley, I took a deep breath, feeling my pulse beginning to slow down finally. I glanced up and met Angela's eyes. She was still pissed off at me, but I also caught a hint of the earlier sadness in her gaze before she looked hastily back at her computer. Our conversation in the bathroom came back to me in a rush.

"What are you doing, Pam? Throwing away Roy's memory for some random salesman?"

I'd clenched my teeth, trying hard not to fly off the handle. "I haven't forgotten Roy. I'll never forget Roy. He was my husband."

"You think Roy would want you acting so—so _brazen _around him."

I mentally counted in my head, but could only reach five before saying: "First of all, I'm not being _brazen._ And who even uses that word anymore? And secondly—yeah, you're right. Roy _wouldn't_ want me moving on with my life. He had a jealous streak a mile wide. He wouldn't have thought much of Jim at all, I imagine. He would have had all kinds of cheap things to say about a man who was so sensitive, so kind, so gentlemanly. I loved Roy, but Jim is everything Roy was not—so sue me if I find that refreshing. But it doesn't take away from my feelings for Roy. And third—I don't owe you any kind of explanations, Angela. This is none of your business."

She'd flinched in pain, before the ice maiden had returned.

"Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. Just don't expect me to invite him for Sprinkles's next party. And if you keep seeing him, well…"

"Well _what,_ Angela?" I prompted, my eyes equally cold.

But she'd sniffed, broken eye contact, and walked out of the bathroom in a huff.

I stood there, angry and trembling from the shock of our confrontation. I wasn't used to having conflict with anyone, was ashamed to admit that I'd always given Roy the silent treatment when I was mad, done passive aggressive things like "forget" to wash his favorite work shirt, or make him wait after work for me an extra ten minutes. Those things had only served to annoy him, and we would never discuss what had made me mad, let alone that I was even mad at all. I'd just tamp down my anger, silently forgive him, and go on with my life, never telling him that he'd hurt me or how.

The fact that I'd stood up to Angela now made me a little proud of myself, but a moment later, I was crying into a wad of scratchy toilet paper, as waves of emotions I couldn't control washed over me. It felt like a little more of Roy had slipped away from me, and I didn't quite know how to deal with that. And while my characterization of my dead husband had been accurate, I felt terrible for speaking ill of him when he wasn't there to defend himself. When he didn't deserve to have his memory tarnished that way. When it made me such a coward and a hypocrite because I hadn't been able to be honest about my feelings when he'd been alive.

I looked at my face in the mirror, and had the sudden urge to break free, to get out of this stifling bathroom, this stifling office, to breath in some fresh air. I rushed out of the bathroom and strode quickly past everyone, not meeting anyone's eyes—especially not Jim's-and went out to the stairwell and climbed the stairs that would lead to the next floor, then up the built-in ladder to the roof.

But then Jim had followed me and called my name and totally turned my world upside down with his hot kisses.

Ten more minutes passed before Jim came back. He looked considerably more put together than I felt, and he paused at Reception.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"  
I met his eyes sheepishly. "Yeah."

He hesitated, absently taking a couple of jelly beans. I wondered if he was summoning the courage to say something to me about how we'd left things in the stairwell. I couldn't let him think that he didn't measure up to Roy, so I felt it was up to me to break the ice. I took a breath and plunged in.

"Can we talk…later, after work?"

He nodded, looking both relieved and reticent at the same time. "Okay. Yeah."

"On the roof."

At his questioning look I elaborated. "There's a ladder in the stairwell of the top floor."

He nodded, holding my gaze for a moment before the phone rang again. I gave him a watery smile of apology for the interruption. He went back to his desk, and we both tried to work the rest of the day, crickets forgotten, but certainly not the tension that hummed between us.

At five, when everyone started to leave, I glanced over at Jim, who was rising too. He put on his coat from the rack, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and left, chatting with Kelly—or more accurately, _she_ was chatting with him. I grinned, feeling a little sorry for him, before Michael came out of his office.

"What was up with you this afternoon? Dwight said you ran out of the office crying."

I felt my cheeks flush. I was relieved that apparently Dwight hadn't shared the more tantalizing gossip of seeing Jim and I standing so close in the stairwell.

"I uh…it was just a bad day." No way was I telling Michael that Angela had been a bitch, or that his new salesman had kissed me.

"Thinking of Roy?" he asked gently, surprising me with his unusual insight.

I felt my eyes water in spite of myself. "Yeah," I said, because it was pretty close to the mark, though not for the reasons he probably suspected.

He smiled a little. "Hang in there, kid. And if you ever need a shoulder—"

"Thanks, Michael," I said sincerely.

He nodded. "See you tomorrow."

"Good night."

Toby was the last to leave, and as I wished him a good evening, I shut down my computer and went around turning off lights. I kept thinking of Jim, somewhere above my head, waiting for me, despite the fact that I'd hurt his feelings, or, at the very least, left him confused.

I hadn't wanted anyone to see us together, especially not the warehouse guys—all friends of Roy's—so I'd impulsively suggested the roof. This was also the one place at the office that Roy and I had never been together. It had been my secret oasis, a place I went when I needed some air without having to see anyone else. I'd come here when I was mad at Roy, or if I wanted a quiet lunch, or if the day had been particularly hectic. I didn't stop to analyze why I would invite Jim up here, but never Roy.

As my head came above the hatch opening, I saw that Jim was standing at the back of the building, looking out over downtown Scranton, as the sun began to set behind the Scranton Electric Building. He'd set down his bag and had buttoned his overcoat to his neck in the chilly October breeze, hands in his pockets. I pulled my own coat more tightly around myself, wondering if this was the best location, given the cold draft blowing up my skirt. Jim heard my footsteps behind him, but didn't turn from the view.

"The foliage is pretty this year," he said. I followed his gaze to the vivid oranges, reds, and yellows that dotted the city. The cars on the highway were a distant hum in the background.

"Yeah. It's my favorite time of year. It's nice when we get some fall days before it jumps right into winter."

He turned to face me, and I hated that he seemed so…wary.

"So, we've covered the weather. What else did you want to talk about?"

I smiled grimly. "I—I think I left you with the wrong idea earlier, when we uh-on the stairs."

"You mean when you kissed me and compared me to your husband?"

I cringed, but I suppose I was glad he'd jumped right into the thick of things. He wasn't being unkind; just honest. In all my years with Roy, I had always held a little of my true feelings back, never wanting to hurt his male pride or make him angry or in any way upset. Roy was never completely honest with me either, I suspected, though his occasional sarcasm, negative attitude, and dark moods left little to the imagination.

"I don't think I'll be able to help that," I admitted. "We were together for seven years."

He frowned. "Since high school?" I know how pathetically inexperienced that made me sound.

"Yeah. We'd only been married two months though, when he died."

I watched as a combination of pity and guilt washed over his face. "I'm sorry, Pam. Wow. I feel like such an idiot now. Of course you would compare-"

"No; it's not like that; I mean, not like you think. It's hard for me, painful, to kiss another man and find out…" I hesitated, embarrassed, struggling to find the words, to be honest with Jim like I never allowed myself to be with Roy. I took a deep breath and began again, pleased that my voice was much stronger. "It's hard to find out what I'd been missing in my life all those years."

He regarded me quietly, and I could see the surprise in his eyes. I wondered if he thought I was a terrible person, talking about my dead husband like that. And then he smiled, gently, warmly, reaching out to brush a lock of hair back that had blown out of my barrette. His fingers felt cool against my hot cheeks.

"Beesly, are you saying I'm a good kisser?" Something else Roy wouldn't have done: tease me to ease the tension.

"Oh my God," I said, and turned back to blindly face downtown Scranton. I covered my face with both hands, but next thing I knew, he was turning me to face him, his hands firm and strong, even through the sleeves of my coat.

"Look at me," he prompted softly. I lowered my hands, meeting his eyes shyly. "I get this is weird for you, and things are moving fast between us. But I'm not gonna lie. I want to keep seeing you, keep…_kissing_ you. I want you to get to the same place, no matter how long it takes. I can be patient, Pam."

I must have looked skeptical. "You don't believe me?" he said, in mock offense. "I could wait _years_ for a woman like you."

I laughed. "I don't think you know what you're signing up for. I'm seriously screwed up. I'm a widow, still wearing my wedding ring. I'm kissing men I barely know—"

"Wait—_men_?"

"Man," I amended. "Singular. I have a cat who's waiting at home for me, who, until you came along, was the only male companionship I've had in almost a year. I'm still grieving, but I want so much to move on at the same time. Welcome to my emotional rollercoaster."

He hesitated a moment, and I could tell he was struggling with how to say something. "Don't take this the wrong way, but have you tried going to a support group?"

I nodded. "Once. About a month after. My mom made me go. It was too painful. Actually, being on my own has helped me more. That, and my art. I can't run away from myself or my thoughts when I'm by myself. Well, at least not very far." I smiled a little.

"Wherever you go, there you are," he said, smiling back.

"Exactly."

The silence between us was comfortable, healing, I liked to imagine. It was as if he understood me just by looking into my eyes, and it was a heady feeling, and could no doubt become an addictive one. The simple act of being understood was a revelation to me.

"So…in the spirit of taking things slow, especially since you're still so screwed up and all, would you like to go out on a date with me?" He grinned to let me know he was kidding about the screwed up part, but all in all, it was the most charming invitation I'd ever received.

"Yes," I said, pleased I hadn't scared him off.

"Tomorrow night okay?"

"I'd like that."

"Good. It's a date."

I smiled up into his hazel eyes, warm in the sun's last rays.

"Now that that's settled, can we please get down from here? I'm freezing my ass off."

I laughed, that illusive feeling of freedom coursing through my veins once more. That, and the giddiness I felt just being in Jim's presence. He picked up his bag and took my cold hand in his large warm one. As we walked back toward the ladder, he paused, looking around.

"Was this where you were going earlier?"

"Yeah. I come up here sometimes to get some air."

He nodded toward an ashtray on the cement ledge. It was filled with cigar butts. He raised an amused eyebrow.

"Need a place to smoke your stogies?"

I laughed. "Actually, I think those are Meredith's." I wasn't the only one who came up here, of course. Plenty of times I'd seen the remnants of smokers, a few empty soda cans, and even an occasional condom wrapper.

"Wait—seriously?"

"Yep."

He chuckled all the way down the ladder. He'd insisted on going first, so he could catch me if I fell. I already had learned he was always a gentleman, but I couldn't decide whether it was that or his naughty streak that attracted me more.

"Are you looking up my skirt, Halpert?" I asked, feeling the glow of excitement at the thought of it.

"Yes," he said dryly. "Yes I am."

My skirt was to my knees and I wore dark tights, so I knew he couldn't really have seen much, but I felt my face flush as it seemed to take an eternity to climb down under the weight of his stare.

At the landing, he was waiting with hands alongside the ladder for me to alight. When I turned around, I was conveniently poised to walk into the circle of his arms. And that's exactly what I did.

He held me tightly, so tall that his chin rested on the top of my head. For a few moments, we sort of swayed back and forth, almost as if we were dancing, but even closer than we'd been at Nana Scott's birthday party. As my heart beat in time with our movements, tomorrow night seemed so far away…

"Would it scare you away if I moved up our date to tonight?" he whispered suddenly.

I laughed quietly, and he must have misinterpreted my trembling, for he moved back and looked down at me with concern, no doubt expecting the waterworks to have started again.

"What?" he asked, his smile returning when he saw mine.

"Great minds think alike, I guess. I was just thinking how hard it was going to be to wait until tomorrow."

"So that's a yes?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Well, in that case—" He lowered his mouth to mine in a tender kiss, slow and sweet, though I could feel the banked passion in the tension of his body. He raised his head, kissing me once more on the temple before hugging me tightly again. I closed my eyes and held on.

"For the record, I love rollercoasters,' he said, a smile in his voice.

"And I don't generally kiss on the first date, especially not _before_ the first date," I added, my voice muffled against his coat.

This, of course was a bit misleading. Before Roy, I'd gone on one other date, and that had been with a boy in my class and his parents to the movies. There had certainly been no kissing with watchful chaperones in tow, but I wasn't going to tell Jim that. Roy hadn't summoned the courage to kiss me until our third date.

"I'm honored to have been the exception, Beesly."

I had the terrifying/exhilarating feeling that Jim Halpert was going to be the exception to every rule I'd ever written for myself.

**A/N: Thanks for those who continue to read. Next up, The Date, Jim's POV.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter begins to earn this fic's M rating. I think it's pretty tasteful though, so don't worry. If it's not your cup of tea, lie back and think of England (or Scranton maybe?)****?****.**

**Chapter 7**

**_Jim_**

Turns out, we picked the worst time of the year in Scranton to get dinner reservations at short notice. There was an annual journalism convention in town, where all forms of news outlets—newspapers, radio, television and internet—would send their people to the convention center for three days of meetings and nighttime debauchery (or so I'd heard). Our small city seemed to double in size over night, what with people from all over Pennsylvania and surrounding states converging for a long weekend. At any rate, no way was I getting a table at the finest restaurants in town, and calls to the nicer chains yielded an hour or two waiting time. I was about to reluctantly call the whole thing off when I remembered a favorite place from my childhood, that surely only locals would even think about. I called just in case, and they literally laughed at me over the phone.

"No, sir, no reservations required, no waiting."

I'd grinned. "Just checking, thanks. I've had a lot of bad luck, what with the convention in town."

"Yeah, bunch of crazies out there tonight."

I hung up and got up from my couch, excitement brewing in my gut at the thought of revisiting the old diner that was a frequent hangout when I was a teenager, meeting my buddies there, shyly talking to girls. Pam didn't seem like the kind of girl who would be put off by a little nostalgia. And besides, the burgers were excellent.

She'd given me the address of her apartment complex, where she'd gone home to change, and thirty minutes later, I called her from her parking lot. I didn't want to rush her by showing up on her doorstep too early.

"Are you ready, or do you need more time?" I happened to glance up to the row of second story windows, and her face appeared in a middle one, as she drew back white lace curtains, her phone at her ear. I could see her smile from there, and she waved.

"No, I'm ready. I'll be right down."

"I was planning to come up and escort you—"

"I know; you're quite the gentleman. Save that for later, Halpert," she said, and I saw her smile widen. The curtains fell again and she hung up. Three minutes later, she was striding to my car.

The least I could do was get out and open the door for her—my mom had taught me right, after all. I stood and watched her approach, our eyes holding, though mine dropped to take in the fact that she was wearing slacks and black, high-heeled ankle boots. Her hair was free from the usual barrette, and it hung halfway down her back in soft curls. I couldn't see the top half of her outfit, hidden as it was beneath her pink coat, and I wondered if it would match the cherry red lipstick she wore. It was a shame she'd have to reapply that later, I thought, my heart quickening.

"Hey," she said, blushing as she no doubt read something of my feelings on my face.

"Hi. You look beautiful," I said. I bent and kissed her cheek, inhaling the roses of her scent. She caressed my face and I shivered a little before I opened her door and she slid inside.

"So," I began as I pulled out into traffic, "have you ever been to Joe's Diner?"

She turned to look at me, her eyes sparkling. "Well, duh! If you were a teenager in Scranton in the nineties, that was the place to be."

I glanced over at her, a wonderous thought occurring. "Oh my God. Do you think we might have been there at the same time?"

Her eyes widened. "If you were there on a Friday or Saturday night, there's a good possibility."

I had been, actually. Frequently. "Wow. That's…wow."

Things would have been so different had we met ten years ago. Small, funny world.

"I would have been there with Roy though, so I'm afraid teenage Jim would have had quite the competition."

I felt my smile waver. "Oh. I'm sorry. We don't have to go there if it's—I mean, we can try to find somewhere else to eat."

She shook here head. "No, really. I have good memories of that place. I think it's okay if I go, make some new memories. We live in a small city, Jim. If we started avoiding all the places I went with Roy for ten years of my life, we'd never be able to go anywhere."

I was quiet a moment, not sure if I wanted her thinking about another man on our first official date, though she had a point. We shouldn't have to drive out of town to have dinner. Besides, maybe she was right; maybe this would help her heal, and I was all for that.

"Well, I'm relieved to hear you say that, because our next best option was the Golden Arches."

She laughed. "I'm a cheap date, but not _that_ cheap. Well…maybe we could work out something for our third date."

I grinned, my heart warming at her natural assumption that there would be more dates after this one.

I drove on to Joe's, talking easily about other childhood haunts, both of us surprised to find we'd had many in common, though we had never met. The small parking lot outside of the diner was only half full, I saw in relief, and we sat in the car a moment, both of us lost in nostalgia. Joe's was housed in an old train car, long and narrow, it's shiny, silver metal exterior accented with red painted stripes, the name _Joe's_ announced in bright red neon. Inside we knew there were several booths against the windows, and a long table facing the kitchen with a row of built-in barstools. It had been there since the 1940's, and still retained an atmosphere of a diner lost in time. Even the old jukebox in the back still played actual records, and we were greeted with a Sinatra tune as we entered.

"Sit wherever you like," said the middle-aged waitress from behind the cash register.

I helped Pam off with her coat, and, as I suspected, her top was as red as her lips. That color did beautiful things for her complexion, not to mention my heart rate. The top was much more form-fitting than the button ups and cardigans she wore at the office, and the neckline had a deep _V,_ although a small insert of fabric stretched across the area between her breasts. Though there was nothing at all immodest about it by today's standards, there was still a mouthwatering hint at the true shape of her breasts, and I had to force myself not to stare or allow my jaw to drop like a cartoon character. I'd felt their fullness against my chest, but seeing them-sorry, I'm a man after all; what can I say?

"Red is definitely your color," I commented, when I knew she'd caught me looking. Then I worried whether that sounded a little too _un_-masculine.

But by the way she said, "Thanks," I don't think she minded.

We were all goofy smiles as we slid across from each other in a booth with red Naugahyde bench seats. The plastic-coated menus were already on the table. When I tossed my leather jacket onto the seat, I liked the way she was looking at me too. I'd slipped on a gray sweater over the white oxford I'd worn to work, still wore my gray suit slacks. I guess we were both enjoying each other's after-work attire, for the sexual tension between us heightened noticeably.

We took a moment to admire each other, her hazel eyes bright, red lips drawing my attention again. I reached across the table for her hands, and she let me squeeze them between mine, a mix of emotions crossing her pretty face.

"What happened to all the teenagers that used to come here?" she wondered aloud, breaking the spell a little. I glanced around. We were probably the youngest ones there. I shrugged.

"Guess they must have found a cooler hangout."

"I don't know…do teens even _hang out_ anymore? I never see the crowds of them that used to roam the mall. The arcades are all gone now too."

"Yeah, you're right. I think they're more likely to stay home and play video games these days." I realized how I sounded and shuddered. "I'm officially an old man," I said with a frown.

She laughed. "I'm feeling the same way all of a sudden, and we're only in our twenties. That does not bode well for the future…"

I looked down at our joined hands, just as our waitress came to take our orders. I couldn't help feeling mildly disappointed as her hands slipped out of my grasp to rest in her lap. We didn't need to look at the menus, both of us ordering cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate milkshakes-my standard order as a kid. Hers too, apparently, and we shared another smile over our similar tastes.

As we waited for our food, I realized I didn't know much about her life except the story of how she'd lost her husband.

"So, Beesly, tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

_Everything,_ I thought. But I said: "Start with the basics. Name, rank and serial number; you know the drill."

She smiled. "Well…you probably figured out I was born and raised in Scranton. My parents moved away for Dad's work a few years ago, but I have a sister, Penny, who is in college here in town. I started college myself, but never finished. When Roy and I got engaged and moved in together, it was more practical for me to get a job. I plan to go back someday…"

"I'm sure you will," I said, not wanting her to feel embarrassed about that. She blushed a little but her smile seemed grateful. "Hobbies?" I prompted.

"Painting, drawing, sculpting, crafts…cooking…I like to jog when it's not too cold. I have a cat named Vincent. I don't know. I'm pretty boring, actually."

"Not at all," I said, meaning it wholeheartedly. Everything about her fascinated me, but she obviously didn't like the attention focused solely on her.

"Your turn," she said.

"Well, okay, but we're coming back to you in a bit, Beesly. You're not getting off that easy." I sighed dramatically and she laughed, as I'd hoped she would. "I have two brothers and a sister—Tom, Pete, and Larissa. They're all out of state now, but my parents still live in Scranton. I like _playing_ basketball, watching _all_ sports, and long walks on the beach."

"Wow," she said dryly, "you're quite the catch."

"Have you been talking to my mom?"

We both smiled, then moved on to our respective favorite things lists: music, movies, food, books. I found to my delight that we shared very similar tastes, and we were both major nerds in our own ways.

"I guess the only thing that kept me from total social outcast status in high school was that I played sports," I told her.

"Unfortunately, I didn't have that little fallback—I was one of the weirdo art kids, and kinda went through a short Emo stage, wearing all black and listening to a lot of Sunny Day Real Estate. My parents were very worried for awhile."

I chuckled, unable to fully imagine it. By then our food arrived, and the first thing I did was dip one of the hot, crispy fries into my milk shake—an old tradition that really took me back. When I looked up, Pam was doing the exact same thing.

"Oh my God," I said, fry halfway to my mouth. She met my eyes and smiled, already chewing on her own chocolatey fry. I knew in that moment that I'd found my soul mate, and I nearly said so out loud.

"Roy always used to fake gag when I did that."

I shook my head. "Some people just don't appreciate the good things in life," I said softly. I was glad she didn't seem to take that the wrong way, and I was pleased at the pink in her cheeks as she grabbed two more fries and joyfully double dipped them. I was impressed when she consumed her entire burger, and I wondered where she stored it in her tiny frame, and I teased her about it.

Our bellies full, we ordered coffee and talked for at least another hour, till my butt had gone numb on the uncomfortable seats. I really was getting old, I thought wistfully. I really needed to move, but it was too chilly to do anything fun outside.

"You like to bowl?" I asked suddenly, remembering another teen pastime of mine.

"Yeah! Haven't done it in a while. I used to be pretty good though."

My natural competitive streak piqued at that.

"You don't say, Beesly. I accept your challenge."

She laughed. "I don't recall challenging you."

"Don't try to chicken out now. Let's go!"

I'd long since paid the tab, and we grabbed our coats and left, calling cheerful goodbyes to our waitress. Outside, Pam let me hold her hand on the way to the car. It was amazing how much a simple touch could excite me so much, and my mind began to wander, thinking about what might happen at the end of the evening.

I beat her at bowling, two games to three, but every game was very close. She was good, and of course I told her I was just rusty. There was a lot of good-natured teasing and ribbing, jokes about ugly shoes and small bowling ball holes, and once, I stole a quick kiss when she made her third strike of the evening. I wasn't even tempted to wipe off the lipstick she'd left behind, savoring the taste of it—of her- long afterwards. We nursed a beer or two as we bowled, and we both laughed a lot. My cheeks actually hurt from smiling. She was quick witted and genuinely funny, and I wondered if Roy had appreciated that about her.

I hadn't asked if she and Roy had bowled much, afraid of the answer, I guess. Sometimes I would catch a look on her face though, a quick flash of sadness, a certain wistfulness, that I imagined had to do with her husband. He had been a big part of her life, and there was no way I could compete with that (at least not yet) and I couldn't expect her to forget about him or choose me over his memory, so I tried very hard not to be jealous of a dead guy and enjoy this wonderful woman fate had put in my path.

It was ten-thirty when we tired of bowling, and I was running over in my mind suggestions of how to prolong the evening. I didn't want to say goodbye to her. As we were leaving the bowling alley, someone suddenly called Pam's name. We paused, turning to see a guy about our age trotting up to us, a beer in hand.

"Hey! Haven't seen you in a while. I wondered why you and Roy stopped coming to league night."

Pam's expression froze; he'd obviously hadn't heard. "Oh, hi Joel," she said softly.

The man grinned at her, then glanced curiously at me, noticed how I was holding her hand. His eyes narrowed.

"Jim Halpert," I said, shaking his hand with my right, while still holding Pam's with my left.

"Oh, sorry," said Pam, snapping out of her daze. "Jim, this is Joel McFarland. Roy used to be on his bowling team."

"Nice to meet you, man," I said.

"I guess you and Roy…" he began, looking awkwardly at Pam.

Pam took a deep breath, and I held her hand more tightly. "Joel…Roy passed away about a year ago."

"What? Oh my God! I'm so sorry. I hadn't heard...I'm out of town a lot with work, you know. Been in Florida most of the year, actually."

Pam nodded. "That's okay. It was a sudden thing. An accident. I know how much Roy liked you. He always said you put the coolest spin on the ball…"

Joel's smile didn't meet his eyes. "God, Pam. That's-I'm so sorry," he repeated helplessly. "Look, I know it's been awhile ago, but if there's ever anything you need…"

"Thanks, Joel. I appreciate that. Look, Jim and I were just leaving. It was good to see you." She held out her other hand, and Joel held it warmly between both of his.

"It was good to see you too. Don't be a stranger around here. I remember how you used to piss Roy off when you beat his score." They both laughed, momentarily breaking the tension.

"That I did. Tell Jillian hello for me, will you?"

"I sure will." He nodded at me. "Jim."

"Joel."

We both fell quiet as we left, and I tensed, waiting for the inevitable tears that would tear my heart out, and I'm not proud to admit that I was selfishly disappointed that this would probably end our date prematurely.

In the car, I turned to her in the darkness.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry about that. I wish you'd mentioned you and Roy used to hang out there."

"Let's go back to my place," she said, ignoring my apology. _Had I heard her right?_

"Pam-"

"It's okay. _I'm_ okay. Just for drinks, okay? I've had a great time tonight…I don't want it to end just yet."

"Me neither," I said. I started the car and drove back to her apartment complex, trying not to read too much in the silence, hoping and praying this was the right thing to do.

Up in her apartment, we removed our jackets, hanging them on a coat rack by the door. She told me to make myself at home while she went to the kitchen for some wine. Pam's living room looked like a picture from one of my mom's _Home and Design_ magazines—shabby chic, I think they called her style, or maybe it was Boho-I'm not sure which. I sat on the comfy old slip-covered couch, admiring the tasteful touches, the mismatched furniture, the distressed pieces, the feminine flavor of it all, so much like her. I stood to go look at some of the framed art on the wall, pleasantly surprised to see one or two water colors of floral still lifes signed by Pam Beesly herself.

"Your paintings are very good," I said, when she returned, handing me a glass of pinot grigio.

She blushed. "Thanks."

I sipped the cold wine, my heart pounding at her nearness, at our aloneness. I bent to kiss her, and she met my lips without hesitation. My intentions were to follow her wishes and take things slow, but Pam apparently had changed her mind about what she wanted, and I found myself drawn in by her passionate response, forgetting for the moment why this sudden change might just be a reaction to meeting Roy's old friend. Soon it became difficult to think at all, especially when she was backing me to the couch. Without missing a beat, she took our glasses and set them on the white washed coffee table, her mouth barely leaving mine. I sat down, taking her with me, turning to pull her closer.

Our kisses were deep and sweet, her hands hovering at my waist before slipping under my sweater and untucked shirt to touch bare skin. Her hand, cool from the wine glass, made me gasp, and she laughed sexily in her throat.

"Sorry," she said, but I don't think she really was.

I met her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, and my stomach clenched in anticipation. She was so damned beautiful, her face flushed, her pupils large, her lips stained red. I watched my own fingers trace her delicate clavicle, pausing at the vulnerable indentation at the base of her throat. I bent to press my mouth there, suddenly desperate to taste that spot with my tongue. Her hands slid into my hair, holding me against her, her breathing irregular. I could actually feel her pulse racing beneath my lips. Nestling into her hair, I took her earlobe between my teeth, suckled it gently, as her fingernails scraped convulsively against my scalp. It hurt a little, but it also made me smile inside that something so simple could affect her like that.

In the back of my mind was the thought that there had only been one man before me, and I was bound and determined to cherish her as she deserved, to show her how much she excited me. I continued my exploration, moving back down her neck to that strip of fabric at her cleavage that had so tantalized me. I couldn't resist cupping her breasts beneath her shirt, my thumbs brushing over her lace-covered nipples, feeling it in my groin at how quickly they pebbled beneath my touch, at how mindlessly she moaned.

But her hands began an exploration of their own, leaving my hair to caress my stomach. They were hot now against me, and she mimicked my actions, skimming the contours of my chest, playing with the hair there, momentarily distracting me from my own quest. I found her lips again, and she sucked my tongue into her mouth. At the same time, she boldly traced the hardness in my slacks. I let her torture me a few incredible moments, my hands stilling at her breasts as I tried to maintain my tenuous control. Growing dizzy from both her touch and lack of oxygen, I turned my face away from her drugging kisses.

"Oh God," I breathed. "Pam…"

Her mouth dropped to my neck, and she grasped me below with increasing pressure. Things might have become embarrassing for me very quickly if I hadn't put my hands over hers to stop her.

"If you don't want this to go…any further," I panted, "you really need to stop…what you're doing."

I hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but I was reaching the end of my self-control, only seconds away from tearing her clothes off and taking her on her pretty white couch.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked breathlessly.

"God no!" I said vehemently. I closed my eyes, willing myself to calm down. "But I thought you'd said you wanted to take things slowly."

"There are…other things we can do…for each other," she said hesitantly, her eyes dropping from mine, "without, you know…"

I smiled in spite of myself, charmed at her shyness.

"That's true, and frankly I'm up for anything. But I don't want to do anything you're not ready for."

Her eyes rose again to meet mine. I saw trust there, determination, lust—it was an overwhelming combination, and in that moment, I would have done anything she asked of me, even if it meant leaving her in my current condition.

"Everything _but,_" she said at last, and there was no more hesitation.

I grinned, having flashbacks to my early teenage sexual experiences. I guess this was quite the night for nostalgia. "Well okay then…where were we?"

You'd think that our pause to negotiate would have slowed things down a bit. Not so. If anything, I had become even more turned on just talking about what she wanted me to do for her, considering it a challenge to my creativity. Sure, intercourse was the ultimate, but carte blanche on the rest of her body (and mine) could be almost as satisfying. At least, that was the plan.

I began kissing her again, stopping to whisper in her ear, "Would you like to move this to the bedroom?"

She shivered in reaction. "Yes."

We undressed each other on the way to the hall, stopping between hot, wet kisses to take off sweater and shirts, to kick off shoes and unzip pants. At one point, I pressed her half-naked body against the wall, letting her feel what she was doing to me through my boxers, before releasing the back fastening of her bra and dropping the garment to the floor. I stood back to admire her, not believing my good fortune.

"You're perfect," I said, hearing the awe in my hoarse voice. Then I smiled. "Even your breasts blush, Beesly."

"Shut up!" she said, reddening even more.

Her arms came up to cross over her chest, and she slipped from beneath my arms to run the rest of the short distance to the bedroom. My predatory instincts kicked in, and, my smile widening, I stalked her into her bedroom.

**A/N: More naughtiness in the next chapter, but all is not as perfect as it seems, at least not yet. Pam's POV next. Thanks for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter is a bit longer, since I had more time this week to work on it. Also, it earns more of the M-rating at the beginning. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 8**

**_Pam_**

He followed me into my bedroom, my heart pounding in my head like I'd been running a race. He advanced toward me slowly, a predatory grin on his handsome face, looking amazing with his bare, broad shoulders, his flat, lightly muscled stomach, and blue plaid boxer shorts that clearly showed how much he wanted me. I stood my ground until he loomed over me, blocking the diffused light from the hallway.

"According to a certain bear expert I know," he said, in that deep voice of his, made devastatingly sexy in his current state of arousal, "when a bear comes toward you, you should never run. It just makes him want you even more."

My lips quirked. I'd known Dwight a bit longer, so I'd been subject to many more bear facts than Jim. "Fact: Grizzly Bears have been known to eat female bears if they're too underweight. As a result, they often run from him, at least initially."

Jim's reply was to emit a guttural growl, before gathering me up in a bear hug and ravaging my mouth. I kissed him back immediately, growing weak as his chest hair rubbed against my breasts in an incredibly sensual way. When I was suitably dazed, he lifted his head.

"And _that_ is the very last time Dwight Schrute is in this bedroom with us."

I laughed breathlessly. "You started it."

"Hmmm," he hummed noncommittally, before surprising me again by lifting me up in his arms and carrying me to my full-sized bed. He acted at first like he was going to throw me, and I squealed in alarm. He chuckled and lowered me gently, covering my body with his.

"I don't think you're too underweight," he whispered against my mouth, "but, nevertheless…"

I felt my eyes widen at his naughty implication, made real when his hot mouth clamped over one sensitive nipple. He took turns worshipping (there is no other way to describe it) each of my breasts with his mouth and tongue and fingers, and I felt each sharp pull all the way to my core. I was dangerously close to the edge by that alone, before he moved lower, trailing his lips toward my panties. He kissed me between my legs, breathing hot air through the fabric there, while I shivered helplessly. His hands rested questioningly along my waistband, and he looked up at me for permission.

"You don't have to do that," I said shakily. Roy was never a fan of oral sex (at least, not on me), and the few times he'd tried over the years, he'd given up too soon, complaining it took too long for me that way, that all he got out of it was a crick in his neck. He was right about it taking a long time, but I'd always believed it was because he'd approached it more like a chore than a pleasure.

"Oh, but I _want _to," said Jim huskily, and he slipped off my embarrassingly damp panties, tossing them on the floor before proceeding to erase everything I thought I'd known about cunnilingus. As with my breasts, he employed his lips, his tongue, his long, dexterous fingers, and with languid, sensual strokes, it took very little time at all before I was crying out my release, my thighs trembling violently, hips lifted off the bed, seeing stars behind my closed eyelids.

It had been perfect and beautiful, but as he kissed me gently there one last time, I began to cry, my body shaking now for an entirely different and mortifying reason. He moved up beside me instantly, gathering me in his arms in the middle of my small bed.

"Hey, it's okay," he said, kissing my wet cheeks.

I cried into the crook of his neck, his hands caressing my back in a vain attempt to console me. It had all been too much, I guess: the perfect evening, the laughter, the best orgasm I'd ever had—all of this brought to me by a man I'd known for a matter of days, who'd been the polar opposite of my husband. But then there was Joel, an ill-timed reminder of my life with Roy. I can't adequately describe the guilt I was feeling in that moment, when Joel saw me with Jim, despite all my brave words about deserving happiness and letting go of the past. I'd used Jim to escape, I realized suddenly, and the guilt of that made me cry even harder.

I cried myself to sleep like a child, awoke alone in my bed. I could still smell Jim's cologne on my pillow, on my body, and I shuddered as the memories of passion and pain came rushing back. I glanced at the bedside clock through bleary eyes. It was five a.m. I wondered when Jim had left, wondered if he'd decided that I wasn't worth the trouble after all, or if he never wanted to see me again.

I got up, grabbing my ratty old robe from a hook behind my bedroom door, and walked across the hall to the bathroom. I looked at my swollen eyes and blotchy face, and promptly doused my face with cold water. There were still a few hours until I had to go into work, and I was suddenly desperate for a cup of coffee and a hot shower—in that order. I used the bathroom and padded barefoot down the hall, noting that Jim must have picked up my discarded clothes along with his. It was then that I heard his voice, and my heart leapt in my chest, those damn tears springing to my eyes again.

Jim hadn't left after all.

He was holding my cat in my kitchen, wearing his white oxford, untucked, over his plaid boxer shorts, his hair an adorable mess. He stood there, scratching behind Vincent's ears and calling him a good kitty. I could hear the cat's loud purring from where I'd stopped to watch in the living room.

"Hey," I said softly, my voice trembling.

He looked up and gave me a sleepy, sexy smile that made me feel warm and melty all over.

"Hi."

I walked over to him, reached out to pet Vincent.

Our fingers touched somewhere in the cat's white, fluffy fur, and we both stilled in reaction before I forced myself to pull my hand away.

He cleared his throat, as affected as me I supposed. "Guess who woke me up this morning when he jumped on the bed?"

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry! He must have hidden last night when he heard a strange voice, and then I sort of uh…had other things on my mind, poor kitty." I blushed, remembering the ecstasy and the agony of last night. He didn't meet my eyes, and I wondered if it was embarrassment or something else. "He must have been starving," I finished lamely.

"I found his food, so I opened a can for him. He's a pretty good cat, as far as cats go."

"Not a cat fan?"

"Not usually," he said.

"Well, I think he likes _you._ The only human he's ever been around besides me is Angela."

"Not a very high bar, then."

We both grinned, but then I felt the return of the tension in the room. Vincent began to wriggle, so Jim set him down, leaving no buffer between us.

"Jim—"

"Pam—"

We both began at once.

"You first," he said.

This close to him, I had to lean back to look up into his face. "You stayed," I said simply.

He nodded, his eyes soulful, serious, and beautiful. "I didn't want to leave you…and then I fell asleep too." His smile was sheepish as he shrugged. He made it seem so natural, so easy that he had given me such amazing pleasure, held me while I cried, then stayed with me all night on a first date, as if that was something any guy would do instead of freaking out and getting the hell away from my craziness.

"I'm sorry I was so upset. When I saw Joel last night—"

"I figured that was it, I mean, that was why you suddenly decided to kick things up a notch. Not that I'm complaining about what we did, but I probably should have been a stronger man and put a brake on things. I just couldn't resist your uh, charms."

I flushed and looked down. "You mean when I attacked you in the living room?"

"Yeah, that would have been the time."

He reached beneath my chin with one long finger, and I raised my eyes to his like an obedient child. "Don't be embarrassed," he said. "It was the best date I've ever had, and I'm sorry about nothing, except that you were feeling so bad later. Even then, I selfishly admit it was a pleasure holding you all night, sleeping by your side on your very small bed." He grinned, his hand moving to rest on my shoulder. It felt heavy and warm through my threadbare robe.

"Thank you for being so understanding, for…_being_ here. And I just want you to know, I'm really not a tease like that. I wanted to be with you, to make you feel as amazing as you made me feel. I uh, still do." I was proud of myself for that brave speech, and for the fact that I met his eyes for every word, though I know my cheeks were flaming red.

"There's plenty of time for that," he promised, and he bent and pressed his lips to mine. My hand came up to his stubbled cheek, and I tasted my own cinnamon mouthwash on his tongue. I wished I had brushed my teeth, but he didn't seem to mind, wrapping me in his arms while Vincent rubbed against our legs and meowed plaintively.

He pulled away to look down at our small, furry interloper. "Someone's a little jealous, I think."

I laughed. "Maybe. More likely he just wants more ear scratching. Would you like some breakfast? The best I can do is probably cereal or toast, but I'll guarantee the coffee's good."

"Best offer I've had all day."

As we sat across from each other at my small dining table, eating Cherrios and Muselix, respectively, I thought about how incredible it was to be able to be so honest with someone, not fearful he would be angry or annoyed or even hurtfully teasing for what happened. I was back once again to that feeling of freedom, and for once, I decided not to analyze it.

"I need to get home and shower and change before work," he said, sipping his coffee. There was genuine regret in his voice.

I wished in that moment that I could be that girl with the courage to tell him not to go, to come back to the bedroom with me and I would attempt to give him as much pleasure as he'd given me last night. Then, we could take that shower _together_ and show up very late for work. But I wasn't that girl, at least not yet, so I smiled a little and nodded.

"Yeah. I guess I should do the same here."

We finished the rest of our coffee and cereal in companionable silence, our fingers interlacing across the table, our gazes on each other. I felt warm and fluttery and at a loss for words. It was very hard not to focus on his full lips, to think of how kissable they were, to remember how soft they'd felt on the most intimate places of my body. I'm pretty sure he knew what I was thinking, for he blushed a little, his eyes going dark as he brought his mug to his mouth.

With a final squeeze of my hand, he took both our empty bowls and rinsed them out in the sink before turning back to me, leaning casually against the counter. He took up so much space in my tiny kitchen, and my eyes drifted to his long legs, hairy and excitingly masculine, before drifting back up to his well-formed forearms, bare also where he'd rolled up his sleeves. "Let's go out tonight," he said, when I finally focused on his face again. He lifted one expressive eyebrow in amusement. It was embarrassing, being caught so blatantly checking him out. But God, he was so incredibly beautiful to me, boyish hair and all.

"How about dinner and a movie?"

I felt my biggest smile stretch across my face. "I'd love to."

He grinned back, obviously pleased. "Great."

He wandered back to the living room, retrieving his pants from where he'd tossed them over the back of the couch. My clothes from last night were folded neatly on the overstuffed arm, bra on top. I felt a renewed thrill, remembering when he'd taken it off me, wondering if he'd thought of that too, when he'd retrieved it from the hall sometime this morning.

I followed him, standing awkwardly nearby as he pulled on his slacks, then sat on the couch to put on his socks and shoes. I guess some men looked just as sexy putting _on_ their clothes as when taking them off. He stood then, fully dressed, his discarded sweater draped over his arm, and walked over to me. He seemed to tower over me, but his height made me feel more feminine than intimidated.

"Did I tell you I had a good time last night?"

"Yes," I said. "You mentioned that. But I think we can do better—that _I _can do better. I'm really gonna try hard not to embarrass myself for once."

He frowned, his hand cupping my cheek. "Hey, I think we've established that I'm plenty tall enough to ride this particular ride. Don't put any pressure on yourself, Beesly. Feel what you're feeling, all right? I'm not scared, and I'm not going anywhere."

He was about to kiss me again, but he hesitated just over my lips. "You believe me, don't you?"

I swallowed, and all I could do was nod, overwhelmed to find that I really did. It must have been a good enough reply for now, for his lips were suddenly on mine, and my arms snaked helplessly around his neck, going up on tiptoes. His hand slipped inside my robe, cupping my breast briefly before reluctantly pulling away with a moan of frustration.

"I'd better go. I just had to see what you had on under that robe; it's been driving me crazy all morning." He pulled it closed again, tying the belt more tightly around me out of self-preservation.

Blushing furiously, my heart pounding, I walked with him to my door, where he shrugged on his coat.

"I'll see you at work," he said, grasping the doorknob.

"Yes."

He seemed to have a brief internal struggle before he gave in and kissed me passionately again until we were both breathing heavily.

"Bye," he said, and I heard his low groan after he closed the door against the cold morning breeze. I listened as his heavy footsteps went down the outside metal stairs before I ran to the window and watched him stride to his car. Vincent jumped up on the window sill, licking his paws contentedly. As he opened his car door, Jim looked up at my window, caught me staring, waved, and grinned. We stayed there until he drove out of sight, Vincent and I, the cat giving a knowing meow.

"Yeah, I miss him too, kitty."

Xxxxxxxxxxx

It was part of my job to come into the office before everyone else, and I unlocked the door like any other morning, went around to turn on the lights, started a pot of coffee, adjusted the heat. Except on this morning, I nervously waited for Jim to arrive. I had just turned on my computer when the main door opened, and I looked up expectantly. But it wasn't Jim's warm eyes that met mine; it was Angela's cold ones.

Her gaze flicked icily away, and she practically marched past Reception, hurrying to get to her desk. I sighed, feeling the anger from yesterday (had it only been _yesterday_?) suddenly melt away, and I knew it was because of what had happened with Jim last night and this morning that had brought on this new spirit of forgiveness. With that in mind, I followed her to Accounting. She was draping her coat over the back of her chair when I stopped beside her.

"Angela," I said softly. She froze, then turned stiffly to face me, saying nothing, her face composed and blank. So, she wasn't going to make this easy. I almost smiled.

"Look," I began again, "I'm sorry about how we left things yesterday. You've been a good friend to me since Roy died, and I know you're just trying to look out for me, but I really like Jim, and this is the first time in forever that I've felt…hopeful. I'm sorry if this upsets you, but it doesn't have to come between us like this. I would really hate it if it did-"

And then, much to my surprise (horror?) her carefully schooled face crumbled, and she was crying like a little girl. She began to talk then, the words flowing out of her like a dam had broken, her voice shaky between sobs and gulps of emotion.

"Oh, Pam, this isn't about Jim or Roy, not really. I just, well, I see how you two are together, like there's this connection there that—that I'm afraid is going to take you away from me. I don't make friends easily, especially not _girl _friends, and I've liked so much spending time with you, I—I—" It was here she finally ran out of steam, and I stepped closer to her, drawing her into my arms. She clung to me like a child, and I rubbed her back, whispered that everything was okay. After a minute or two, she stepped suddenly away, reached for the Kleenex box on her desk.

"We're friends, Angela. We'll always be friends. You helped me through the worst time of my life, you and Vincent. I can care about more than one person at a time, though, and we'll still get together, I promise, and so can our cats. This thing with Jim is very new, but it's—it's nothing like I've ever felt before. I hope you can be patient with me, because if I'm making a mistake here, you know I'm going to need your shoulder to cry on."

She met my eyes and laughed a little. "Okay."

"And Vincent likes him, so…"

I waited to see her reaction to that, and her watery eyes clouded over at once, but I could actually see her struggle and then valiantly try to wipe the judgmental expression off her face. She succeeded, mostly, and I gave her mental kudos for trying.

"Does that mean that you and Jim…?"

I shook my head, resisting the urge to proclaim once more that it wasn't her business, but I realized that it had been a long time since I'd had a close friend too, and I'd forgotten how you're _supposed_ to share these details with a girlfriend.

"No, well, not exactly. But we're getting closer, and I'm, well, feeling a little conflicted. But he's being so patient with me, Angela. He's just so…_wonderful_. You'd like him too, if you gave him a chance. Please, try to be happy for me, okay?"

We could hear the arrival of some of our co-workers, and Angela hastily wiped at her face, trying to compose herself.

"But Vincent likes him, you said?"

I smiled. "Yep. He let Jim pick him up, and even purred when he scratched behind his ears—you know how much Vincent likes that."

Angela smiled. "Yes. His mother is the same way."

"Are we okay?" I asked, reaching my left hand out to hold hers. She looked down at it, and was just about to take it, when her eyes narrowed and she looked back up at me.

"You took your wedding ring off," she stated. "I guess that means you're really ready to move on."

I gasped, holding my hand up to my face like I'd never seen it before, saw the paler white line of skin where the gold band would normally be. I also still wore my engagement ring, a small diamond solitaire of only an eighth of a karat—all that Roy had been able to afford-and I'd always been fearful of losing the delicate diamond. I took it off before I took a shower or washed the dishes by hand, putting both rings safely into ring holders by either sink in my apartment.

"I—I didn't mean to, but I guess I just…forgot to put it back on after my shower."

I felt the color drain from my face.

"Are you okay?" Angela asked in real concern. "You want to sit down? You look like you're going to faint."

Angela reached out then, holding onto my arm to steady me. I stood a moment, trying to take deep breaths. I felt another pair of eyes on me, and I glanced over to see Jim, standing by his desk, deep concern etched on his cleanly shaven face. He seemed poised to come to my rescue.

"I'm all right," I said to Angela. "I didn't mean to forget, I swear," I repeated lamely.

She looked into my eyes, and I saw unusual warmth there, even acceptance. "Maybe it wasn't really an accident," she said softly. "Maybe it was a sign." Impulsively, I hugged her again, just as Oscar and Kevin arrived at their desks near Angela's.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Everything okay here?" asked Oscar tentatively. I suppose our argument yesterday had been the stuff of office gossip.

"We're fine," said Angela. Then she frowned. "Some people just need to mind their own beeswax around here."

She squeezed my hands and winked, and I gave her a thankful, albeit watery grin.

My mind still whirling, I walked back past Jim, nodding to him to let him know I was fine. Nevertheless, he went up to Reception and leaned on the counter.

"You okay?" He seemed to ask me that way too often. God, was I that much of a basket case?

I wiped my nose with a Kleenex from my own desk, sitting heavily in my chair.

"Yeah. I'll tell you about it later."

There was still a lot to process, and my ring finger suddenly felt really weird and bare, but being near Jim, it was easier to push it out of my mind for now.

"You need me to think of some diabolical prank to play on Angela?" he was saying. "Maybe send someone to shave her cat?" There was something very scary in Jim's eyes in that moment, and I almost believed him.

My eyes widened and I laughed. "No! God, no! Actually, we're good now. I just had a little shock. Really, I don't want to talk about this here," my voice lowering as Dwight walked past, eyeing the two of us suspiciously.

By now, nearly everyone had made their way to their desks, except Michael of course, who was always what he called _fashionably late_.

Satisfied that I was all right, his eyes softened. "I missed you," he said quietly.

I imagined my cheeks turned their usual bright pink, as they frequently did under his gaze. "I missed you too. I can't wait for tonight," I added bravely, and was rewarded with his darkening pupils.

"Yeah," he said huskily, "I have no idea how I'm going to get any work done today. And since now I don't have to arrange a cat shaving, I'll just have to think of some other mischief to pass the time."

I smiled. "Count me in."

"You got it, Beesly." He stepped back as if to leave, changed his mind, and leaned over my desk once more, his voice guttural, passionate. "God, I so want to kiss you right now."

So did I, desperately.

"Stairwell, ten minutes," I said recklessly.

"Make it five."

**A/N: More soon. Thanks for reading. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Jim tries to improve on their second date. Let's see how he does.**

**Chapter 9**

**_Jim_**

We took several "breaks" that day, in the stairwell, on the roof, in my car. Pam began calling them snog fests—I don't know why. I think maybe she'd been reading too much _Harry Potter_ or _Bridget Jones_ or something else British. No matter what you called them though, those times were both wonderful and terrible. Wonderful, for obvious reasons; terrible, because we had to go back to work and I was left in a constant state of uh, _readiness._ That aspect was definitely not fun, but I imagined the promised payoff later was going to be epic.

She didn't mention what had shocked her earlier, but I noticed she wasn't wearing her ring when we were sitting in my car at lunchtime. We'd gone through the drive-through at a Chinese chain and parked overlooking Lake Scranton. We passed little white boxes between us, sharing lo mein and sesame chicken with white plastic forks. Colorful leaves fell all around my car, and though the water was dark and choppy, the sky was bright blue.

I happened to glance at her left hand, saw the faint tan line on her ring finger. Since I'd belatedly noticed her wedding ring that day in the laundromat, my attention was now frequently drawn there, lamenting the symbol of her commitment to her husband, of what it now meant for us. For _me_. I stopped in the middle of a story I was telling about the time my brothers and I found blasting caps near a construction site, and stared at her finger. Should I say something? Was this an oversight, or had something changed?

"Oh my God," Pam was saying, "what did Tom intend to do with that hammer?"

"Uh, he—you're not wearing your ring," I said tightly.

She paled, and I knew instantly I was wrong to mention it. She lowered her takeout box.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—forget I said anything."

I looked away toward the lake, the sweet sauce on the chicken turning suddenly bland in my mouth.

"I forgot it this morning," she finally said, her voice soft, unsteady. I should have looked at her, but suddenly I was afraid to. On the surface, this seemed like the good news I'd been waiting for. But the way she'd reacted didn't seem like it was something to rejoice at.

She cleared her throat nervously, then continued to speak in that same tentative tone. "Angela said…maybe…I subconsciously _meant_ to do it. I think she might be right."

My head swiveled back to her in surprise. Not what I was expecting to hear, though I couldn't really say _what_ I'd expected.

"Is that what you really want?" I asked, needing something more, something clear. She looked at me straight on, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and I was now afraid she was going to cry again. Not because she shouldn't cry if she felt like it—I just felt so helpless when she did, and of course, I hated that she was so upset. But she didn't cry.

"It's what I want, yes. Am I ready for it? I don't know. I think so. I _hope_ so." She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm going to try not wearing it for a while. See how it feels."

I reached across the console, took her left hand. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you to be completely free. Selfishly, I do. But I…care about you too much to see you rushing the grieving process, only to have regrets later. You're worth waiting for. You don't have to think I'll give up—there's no one else I'm remotely interested in. So unless you tell me to get lost, I promise I'm sticking around, Beesly."

She seemed at a loss for words, so she squeezed my hand before releasing it to focus on the lo mein. We ate in silence for a few minutes, and then she reached out for the sesame chicken. We traded, giving each other small smiles. I decided to change the subject.

"We told him it was a dumb idea, but then Tom started hitting one of the damn blasting caps with the hammer. There was a loud bang, and shrapnel shot out, hitting Pete in the leg. He was yelling and screaming, blood everywhere. I ran home to get Dad. We got him to the emergency room, but the cops came because it looked like a gunshot wound." I laughed, remembering how scary it seemed at the time, but how stupidly funny it was now.

"You boys could have been killed," Pam said, her eyes wide in horror.

"Yep. And it would have been much more merciful than the punishment we got from Dad—or it seemed that way at the time. After he yelled and cussed at us for two straight days, we were all grounded for the rest of that summer, and had a mountain of jobs to do—no pay of course, so there went my plans for saving for a new bike. Seeing my mom cry was the worst though." I shook my head wistfully in remembrance.

"That must have sucked," she said, her smile returning.

"Yeah, it really did."

"I guess you guys learned a pretty good lesson though."

I chuckled. "You would think. The next summer, Tom found some of my Uncle John's gunpowder, and had the brilliant idea to make a bomb…"

"Oh my God! You're kidding me?"

"Nope. I wish I was."

I regaled her with the rest of the story, and our near-death experience, and how Tom lost his eyebrows in the blast, which had her laughing this time. We finished our lunch, and I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was time to go back to work. She gathered up our trash and I got out to dispose of it in a nearby trashcan. When I got back in, I glanced at her in the passenger seat.

"You ready?" I asked.

Wordlessly, she reached across the console and gently touched my cheek before we both leaned in until our lips met. It began slowly, but became extremely heated a minute or so in, when she slipped her tongue into my mouth and I distantly heard myself moan. I don't remember ever being so aroused simply by kissing, (not counting my teenage years) and I was pretty tempted to suggest we get in the back seat and take all of this to the next level (ala high school). Her cooler head prevailed, however, and she pulled away, breathing as heavily as I was.

"We'd better get back. I don't want to have to explain anything to Michael. He's already suspicious."

"Okay," I said, my head still fuzzy.

"Thanks for lunch, Jim…for your patience…for everything."

I smiled, brushing her long bangs from her eyes. "My pleasure, Beesly. Truly. We still on for tonight?"

"Definitely." She smiled and sat back in her chair, buckling the seatbelt. I took a deep, steadying breath before starting the car. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I was getting coffee when I noticed someone had left a newspaper on the breakroom table. It was the weekend edition, so there was an insert on things to do in and around Scranton for the weekend. It was excellent timing, because I hadn't made reservations anywhere yet and since it was the last night for the journalism convention, I was assuming I'd face the same problem as the night before. I thumbed through the pages mentioning fall foliage tours, Halloween activities, opening movies and local theatre productions, before my eye was drawn to a special Van Gogh exhibit opening that night at the Everhart Museum. It was open to the public, and they would be serving hors d'oeuvres and champagne, so not a casual affair. It was a small museum, and I remember the stuffed bird collection and the fossils we'd see on elementary school trips, so I imagined this was quite a coup for such an exhibit in boring old Scranton. It was only four paintings—one famous, and three of his lesser known works, on loan from the Philadelphia Museum of Art for a couple of months, but given the fact that Pam had named her cat after the artist, I decided it was an inspired place for our second date. I hoped she wouldn't mind going there rather than the movie I had promised.

As for dinner, after a few calls I had the same bad luck with the nicest restaurants, so I decided I would cook for her at my place. Just the thought of having her in my house made me feel warm inside, and I allowed myself to wonder if she might be ready to go further tonight. I knew my roommate Mark was going to his parents' house in Philly for the weekend, so that kind of interruption wouldn't be a problem. No doubt I wanted her in my bed, but she was in such a tenuous state, I didn't want to push her. Still, I was optimistic, and made a mental note to make sure my nightstand was appropriately stocked.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost four, and I suddenly panicked when I realized how much I had to do before our date. I looked up from my coffee to find that Pam had come in the break room. Our eyes met and we both blushed, me because I had just been thinking of her and condoms.

"Hey," I said, clearing my throat. "Change of plans for tonight. Wear something a notch or two above movie casual."

She grinned, joining me at the table, and I loved the spark of excitement in her eyes, pleased that I had put it there.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty, if that's okay."

"Yes, of course."

Just then, Toby walked through from the annex, said a pleasant hello and bought himself a Coke from the vending machine.

"You guys have any fun weekend plans?" he asked, glancing over at us at the table. I met her eyes, and through a silent agreement we decided we wouldn't mention our date.

"Nothing special," I shrugged. Pam politely shook her head.

"Since it's Halloween, I'm taking my daughter trick-or-treating Saturday. She's going to be a ballerina."

"Aw, that sounds adorable," Pam said sincerely. Toby was obviously a very loving father. I'd heard him mention two-year-old Sasha a couple of times already. "Well have fun," she said. "It's supposed to be a good night for it."

"Thanks. Have a good weekend you two." And then he took his Coke and went back to his desk.

"You like kids?" I asked curiously.

"Yes, but I've always felt a little awkward around them. I never feel like they like me."

"It'll be different when you have your own someday." Her eyes flew to mine, and I couldn't help the vision of a little golden-haired girl with Pam's beautiful curls. I took a sip of coffee to cover my wayward thoughts.

"What about you," she asked, and I had the feeling it had taken a lot of courage to ask that. I wondered if she and Roy had talked about having kids. Probably.

"I love kids. I already have a couple of nephews that are really great. I'd like a houseful someday."

Her eyes widened. "You don't typically hear statements like that from a guy your age."

I shrugged. "What can I tell you, Beesly; I'm not your typical guy."

She grinned, and I felt her foot nudge my ankle under the table. "You certainly aren't, Halpert." She rose, rested her hand briefly on my shoulder. "I'll be ready at seven-thirty."

I watched in appreciation as her hips gently swayed in her skirt as she walked out of the break room, and smiled again into my coffee. In some ways, I was actually a _very_ typical guy.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I said a quick good-bye to Pam when five o'clock came around, winked at her when I told her I hoped her weekend was good. Her secretive smile made my heart skip a beat. Next, I drove immediately to the grocery store, where I picked up a couple of steaks to grill (I was pretty confident in my grillmaster abilities), a bagged salad, two baking potatoes, and chocolate cupcakes from the bakery. I chose a bottle of wine, and finished my shopping spree with a trip to the pharmacy section.

At home, I did a hasty, unthorough cleaning of my house, hitting the highlights. Thankfully, Mark had vacuumed the day before, and I had finally broken down and loaded the dishwasher this morning before work. After a quick shower and shave, I wiped down the bathroom, cleaned the toilet, did a general straightening of the living room, and last, but most importantly, changed the sheets on my bed. My pharmaceutical purchase was safely in the nightstand drawer. I would just have time to dress in a fresh suit and tie before driving over to Pam's.

She looked beautiful in a silky black dress that wrapped around her curves, tying on the side in an enticing way, a modest _V _giving a shadowed glimpse of cleavage. Her long hair hung loose about her shoulders, one side pulled back with a sparkly barrette. I had the ungentlemanly thought that her dress would fall off her body just by untying the simple bow, and my mouth went dry as I helped her on with her coat. I lifted her hair out of her collar, holding it up a moment so I could bend and kiss the side of her neck from behind. She smelled incredible, having exchanged her usual rose scent for something darker, sexier. She leaned her head back against my chest with a hum of pleasure, and I was sorely tempted to suggest we stay in, _here_, Van Gogh and steaks be damned.

I tried to pull it together, but the brief kiss she gave me had my head swimming.

"We'd better go," I said, my voice almost cracking embarrassingly. She smiled knowingly and grabbed her purse from the coatrack by her door, while I bent to give the meowing Vincent a hello scratch behind his ears.

"Are you gonna tell me now where we're going," she asked, as I drove onto the street.

"Nope. You know what they say about patience and virtues, Beesly."

"Hmm. Now that's something it's easier to ask for than to give," she said wryly, and I reached for her hand, drawing it to my lips to kiss her smooth palm. She inhaled softly, and I smiled.

"I have no problem waiting for something I know will be incredible."

She raised an eyebrow, her hand sliding over my cheek. I held it there. "You're so sure of that?"

"Yep." Neither of us was talking about dinner plans.

"Time will tell, Halpert."

Now that sounded promising.

The Everhart Museum was lit up like Christmas, a large banner over the door proclaiming the Van Gogh exhibit, with a picture of his famous _Sunflowers _painting. The parking lot was nearly full when we arrived, so it took a few minutes to find a spot.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed as we pulled in. "We're going to see Van Gogh!"

"What?" I said in mock surprise. "I wanted to see the stuffed bird exhibit."

She laughed. "I'd read about this about a month ago, and I'd forgotten when the opening was. This is so awesome, Jim!"

I was inordinately pleased at her obvious enthusiasm, and she practically dragged me to the steps and up to the door in her excitement. After I paid our hefty "donation," we snagged glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, then went to a buffet table to grab a small plate of shrimp toast and mini quiches. It was crowded and loud, but Pam didn't seem to mind as we made our way to the Van Gogh exhibit. We had to wait for people to get their fill of the main attraction, but finally we were free to stand in front of the artist's masterpiece.

"Oh wow," she breathed. "I saw this as a child on a visit to Philly, but I didn't appreciate it then. Look at those colors, Jim. So lifelike. And those brushstrokes…"

She went on and on about Van Gogh's technique, the history of the painting, and I listened, though my attention was more on her animated face, her eyes, alive with passion, than on the famous picture of a vase of yellow flowers. I realized with a start that I was deeply in love with her, that my feelings had gone way beyond the exaggerated love at first sight infatuation stage. Oddly, I felt a wave of calm wash over me, accepting with my whole heart and soul that this was the lasting, abiding love that I knew my parents had, that it was more than physical attraction, more than what my mom would call _puppy love_—much, _much _more.

It took everything in me not to proclaim my feelings right then, not to grab her and kiss her with an excited passion of my own. She turned to look at me for the first time since we'd gotten a clear view of the painting, and she stopped midsentence when she saw my expression. I was making no effort to hide my feelings, and though I worried fleetingly that this might scare her away, I was relieved to see her eyes soften, her cheeks flush at the unabashed love she must have seen there. Maybe, just maybe, she was feeling it too.

Someone accidentally jostled us, breaking the spell, and Pam reluctantly moved out of the way so someone else could have an unobstructed view. Mouth suddenly dry, heart picking up speed, I downed the rest of my champagne and set it on a passing waitress's tray.

We stood off to the side, neither of us speaking, as her eyes travelled to the three other Van Gogh paintings, absently nibbling a quiche and sipping from her glass.

"You want to look at some of the other exhibits?" I asked near her ear.

"Sure, but it's gonna be such a let down by comparison."

I chuckled. "I know. I'm sorry. Not everyone can be Van Gogh."

"Sad but true."

We spent the next hour roaming through the crowded halls, having fun with mutual memories of school trips here and having deep, tongue-in-cheek discussions about the merits of taxidermy.

"What if they did this to humans, like they've done with these animals, manipulating them in what the taxidermists would consider _realistic_ poses," she asked. "Would there be a re-creation of our office, where school kids could walk by and see the paper salesman in his natural habitat?"

I laughed. "If it was me in that scene, I'm sure the dull, lifeless eyes would be eerily accurate."

We were holding hands now, and I was enjoying every second of our time together, but the thought of later that night was pumping my blood through my veins at a dizzying clip, and I had to force myself to live in the moment or risk going crazy.

The crowd had thinned a little back at the Van Gogh exhibit, and we paused again to admire it before heading for the exit.

"This was really amazing, Jim. It's been a long time since I went to a museum—Roy just wasn't into this kind of thing, and I was never comfortable enough going alone."

"Well, feel free to drag me to any gallery or cultural thing you want. I usually get something out of it." And I'd be with you, I added to myself.

She smiled, leaning against my shoulder as we left the warmth of the building for the cold evening air. "You want to wait inside? I'll run and get the car."

"No, I'm fine. It actually feels good after that stifling crush in there."

"Not to mention two glasses of champagne," I added, which I admit had gone to my head a little too. Not that I was a lightweight, just the combination of alcohol and my intense feelings for her were making me feel lightheaded. By the time we reached the car, however, we were both freezing. I immediately cranked up the heat.

"You ready for dinner?" I asked.

"Yeah, I could definitely eat. Were you able to get a reservation?"

"Yes, at the finest establishment in town. You'll be amazed at the skill of the chef there. I hope you like steak."

"I do. That sounds wonderful, actually."

I smiled. "Good."

"Are we going to Posh?"

"Nope. Although some might consider this place_, posh_. I'm sure you've never been here before; it's pretty exclusive."

I caught her frown out of the corner of my eye. "You're being awfully mysterious."

I grinned in a way I hoped was even more mysterious, enjoying teasing her. When I drove down my street, she seemed even more confused.

"This is a residential area. There's a restaurant down here?"

"Did I say it was a restaurant, Beesly?" I pulled into my driveway, and she stared up at the split-level house I rented with Mark.

Suddenly, it dawned, and she laughed. "Is this your place?"

I turned to her and smiled. "Yep. Welcome to Chez Jim. Home of the best grilled steaks in Scranton."

"Nice one. Well, after this buildup, Halpert, I gotta tell ya, my expectations are through the roof."

"You won't be disappointed." Again, with the sexual undertones.

I let her inside and she looked around after I hung up our coats. "This looks like a cozy bachelor pad," she said as she surveyed the living room, the eclectic furniture and cheap artwork. "You have a roommate, right?"

"Yeah, Mark's away for the weekend."

"Hmm." I wondered what she thought of that information.

"Would you like some wine?"

"Sure. Anything I can do to help?" I went into the kitchen, took the wine from the fridge and poured us each a glass, then took the potatoes and washed them before tossing them in the oven.

"Nah, the potatoes will take awhile. I'll give them a half-hour before I start the grill. How do you like your steak?"

"Well done." At my frown, she continued: "And I don't want to hear any wisecracks about my ruining a good steak. If it's the least bit bloody inside, I can't eat it."

"All right, all right-I'll spare the tongue lashing. I just want you to enjoy it." Did everything I said now sound like innuendo?

After handing her her wine, I sat beside her on the couch.

"Thanks again for taking me to the museum. I really enjoyed that."

"You're welcome," I replied. "A toast: to many more cultural experiences."

"I'll drink to that," she said, clinking my glass.

I stared into her eyes, the wine sweet on my tongue. Unable to resist anymore, I leaned over to kiss her, pleased when she didn't hesitate to kiss me back. We held hands and talked and laughed easily, sipping our wine and occasionally giving in to the urge to make out a little. When her stomach growled loudly, I laughed, taking the hint.

"I'll heat up the grill. Since you offered to help, you can set the table and fix the salad."

She raised an amused eyebrow. "What kind of restaurant _is_ this?"

"Whenever my siblings and I complained about preparing a meal, my mom would tell the story of _The Little Red Hen_. So, if you want to eat…"

"Well, if that hen was as bossy as you are, I can see why the other animals avoided doing any work."

I stood, holding out my hand to help her up, then I kissed her smiling lips.

Dinner turned out to be a smashing success, if Pam's rhapsodizing was any indication. We sat at my small kitchen table, finishing off the bottle of wine and sharing a large cupcake. The conversation never lagged, and the alcohol warmed and relaxed us.

"Would you like to watch a movie or something, maybe play a game?" I asked her.

"No," she said. My stomach dropped in disappointment.

"Okay…well, I can take you home if you like."

She shook her head, then took a deep breath. "What I'd really like…is for you to take me to bed."

I swallowed hard.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, unless that's not what you want."

I got to my feet so fast the chair nearly fell over. I was finished playing it cool.

"I want," I said, and pulled her into my arms.

**A/N: I'll let Pam tell what happens next. Thanks for reading.**

**Also, the thing about the blasting caps and the gunpowder—true stories. I had three older brothers, and let's just say they were mischievous.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Well, just this last chapter and a short epilogue. Thanks for hanging in there.**

**Chapter 10**

**_Pam_**

What happened next was mindless and passionate and overwhelmingly pleasurable. He led me upstairs to his room, and we undressed each other by lamplight between long kisses, our hands shaking with desire. I felt feverish, unbelievably turned on by his every caress, every sensual swipe of his tongue. My legs seemed to have transformed to liquid by the time we were both naked and moving together on the bed.

I remember once happening upon one of Roy's girly magazines on the floor beneath his side of the bed. I didn't mind that he had it—I was by no means a prude—and I was more curious than offended. I sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages of nudes, admiring them from an artistic standpoint, until I found an article on how to drive your partner wild in bed. I was curious to see if Roy had just used the magazine for the pictures, or if he had employed any of the writer's advice. As I skimmed through the article, I remember feeling very disappointed, especially since some of the suggestions seemed really hot, and I had no doubt they would do it for me personally. One in particular had stayed with me, and I'd toyed with encouraging Roy to try this method the next time we made love. But I was always shy about telling him what I wanted, in bed as well as everywhere else, so I was left to wonder...

Until now.

I think Jim must have read that article, or he was just an amazingly instinctive lover. "The Rule of Two" went against the male tendency to only focus on one thing at a time, but strongly appealed to the female's innate ability to multitask, which is probably why I would bet that few men could master it on their own, at least not without someone cluing them in. I know this sounds sexist, but hey, men and women thought differently about things, and that included sex.

But all this I thought about later; not while I was in the throes of the best sex of my life with Jim Halpert, when his hands and mouth were always doing two things at once to my body. "The Rule of Two"-it _had_ to be. For when he was passionately kissing my lips, his hands were on my breasts, holding them, lightly squeezing my nipples while I moaned. When he moved down to replace his hands with his mouth, his hands moved further south, caressing my stomach before gently massaging my clit. And when his mouth settled between my legs, one hand slid up again, teasing and alternately pulling at each of my nipples, while two fingers of his other hand slipped inside of me, effectively doing _three _things at once. I felt like I was making love with an octopus—a very sexy, skillful octopus, who very quickly brought me to the first of three orgasms I would ultimately have that night. Don't get me wrong—it didn't feel at all calculated or robotic. On the contrary, Jim was seriously into it, really into _me_, and his every move was passionate, organic, almost frenetic in his desire to touch me, to taste me, and it seemed to bring as much pleasure to him as it certainly had to me.

When I lay gasping the first time, his lips found mine again, kissing me almost reverently before moving across my cheek to my ear. I must have been pretty loud, and my whole body was still trembling, because he whispered: "Are you okay?"

_Was I okay?_ "Oh, my God…Jim…God…" was all I could muster under the circumstances.

He smiled, and I could feel him hard and eager against my stomach. Suddenly, I wanted to give everything back to him tenfold, to reward the patience he'd so exquisitely shown to me. I wrapped my arms around his warm body, hugging him close for a minute.

"Your turn, Halpert," I said, my voice still breathless. "Roll over."

"Wow," he said in mock shock, while complying eagerly at the same time. "Yes, ma'am."

In the dim light his body was long and lean, his abs well formed and tight, though his legs were adorably gangly, lightly furred like his chest with dark brown hair. I ran my hands over him, save the most intimate part, kissing, licking, learning him, while he moaned his pleasure and encouragement. His hands couldn't keep still, and I felt them sliding mindlessly over my bare back, my hips, or playing with my hair. He couldn't seem to stop touching me, any more than I could him. At last, when I felt like I'd teased him enough, I moved down the bed to take his heavy length into my hands. I glanced up at his face as I moved my thumb over the wet tip, watched him shudder and heard his sharp intake of breath. With a pleased smile, I took him into my mouth, while my hands moved up and down, following the rules he'd set for me. He sounded at times like I was killing him, strangling him, given the helpless noises emitting hoarsely from his throat, and I'd never felt so much pleasure myself giving someone else pleasure. He was impossibly hard, and we both knew at the precise moment when I should slow things down. I raised my head at the same time he cried: "Pam, God, _stop!"_

He was panting loudly, and he took a minute to try to re-establish some control, his eyes tightly shut.

"Hey, in my drawer, would you mind…"

I reached over him to open his nightstand drawer, found a new box of condoms. I was glad of his forethought, because I'd been off the pill since Roy died. I tore the little packet open and slid the condom down over him, while his breath hissed through his teeth at my renewed touch. Next thing I knew, however, he'd flipped me over onto my back, his mouth on mine, his hand going down to position himself.

"Is this okay?" he breathed.

He was giving me time to change my mind, even at the last minute, and my eyes watered at his consideration, at his caring.

"It's about to be," I said, lifting my hips to meet him.

He filled me slowly, beautifully, completely, both of us moaning in unison. When he'd found the very core of me, he began to move. His hands propping himself just above me, my legs wrapped around his hips, I pushed him back home with my heels every time he nearly withdrew, and we found this amazing rhythm, totally in sync, the pleasure building with each passionate thrust. He moved forward then, hovering above me, circling his hips slightly in the exact spot that had me coming apart once more.

I had never felt such a connection with Roy, even in our most intimate moments, and I knew in my heart that I was in love with this man. Some people, like Angela, would have said it was too soon, that I was only caught up in the most incredible sex of my life, that I shouldn't confuse love with lust. But when Jim cried out my name, and I felt a wave of heat rushing throughout my body, white lights flashing behind my eyes, I knew this was more than that. Jim Halpert had captured my heart, but at the same time, set me free.

Afterwards, we curled up together in his bed beneath the covers, snuggling close, saying nothing as our hands idly caressed and glided tenderly over cooling skin. I occasionally felt his lips on my temple, and I don't think I was mistaken in the love I felt there, though it remained unspoken by both of us. I knew we had shared a monumental experience, undeniable in its profundity, though neither of us was ready or able to express it verbally.

We slept a little, waking again in the night to move together once more, my hips undulating over his, as his hands reached up to explore my breasts or to rest at my waist, allowing me to set the pace. Every time I sat down, he pushed more deeply inside, his fingers reaching between us, circling where I needed him most. When I began to shake around him he thrust harder until I let out a helpless gasp, he an answering moan, and I collapsed on top of him, my body twitching all over in reaction.

In the early hours of the morning, we shared another cupcake, this time in bed, and I laughed at the big glass of milk he'd brought to go with it.

"Hey, what goes better than milk and chocolate cake?" he said defensively.

"I can think of something," I said with what I hoped was a suggestive smile.

"Hmm," he said, settling on the bed to kiss me with full hands.

We sat cross-legged on the comforter, staring at each other, laughing over nothing, feeding each other, licking frosting from fingers, kissing sweetly with chocolate flavored tongues.

"Have you ever read any uh, girly magazines?" I asked suddenly.

His eyebrows rose comically. "Beesly! That's a very personal question!"

I was blushing, but didn't actually feel that embarrassed. I was just so happy in his presence, so in love with him that it was broadcasting my emotions across my pale skin. I shrugged nonchalantly at his teasing reply. "You don't have to answer; I was just curious."

He considered his reply a moment, then, with a grin, he shared another boyhood story.

"My brothers and I found an old box of _Playboys _from the sixties and seventies up in our attic one time. I think they were my dad's or my granddad's before him. Anyway, those kept us occupied for awhile—that is, until we got internet. These days, no one under sixty looks at skin mags anymore, not with actual video of every possible scenario at your fingertips. Why do you ask?"

I averted my eyes, embarrassed now that I'd unthinkingly ventured into this conversation. "I uh, just wondered where you got your uh, skills. I mean, I'm sure you've been with lots of other women, but I've heard those magazines give some good advice…"

He regarded me a moment, amusement nearly coming out of his pores, though he mercifully controlled his laughter.

"Are you trying to say I'm a good lover?" he asked, his eyes teasing me.

I rolled my eyes. "Well, duh. You must know _that_, Halpert. I mean, I'm sure you've never gotten any complaints in that department."

He reached for my hands, brought both of them to his lips. "Thank you for your confidence. But I wouldn't exactly say I've been with _lots_ of women. A respectable number that I'm not totally embarrassed by. But if I've learned anything, it hasn't been from porn or magazine articles—it's been by paying attention, and…and I don't believe I'm having this conversation with you." He laughed self-consciously, running his hands through his sexy bed head.

I smiled, satisfied with his answer, deciding to save my story about Roy for another day—maybe forever. It made total sense: Jim paid attention. That's why he was such a good lover. He really listened. That's how he knew to give me time, to be patient, to take me to a Van Gogh expedition, to cook my steak perfectly, to scratch my cat's ears, to know just where to touch me, just how to kiss me, just how to love me.

I looked down at my left hand where my rings had been. Roy had loved me in his way, and I had loved him, but despite my desire to remember only the good times, I could admit to myself that he hadn't really been the best man for me. He hadn't really paid attention to what I wanted, what I needed. Had he lived, we would have built a life together, maybe even made it through the long haul, had a couple of kids; but I knew that I would have always felt like something was missing, that some part of myself was missing. Jim had shown me that, and there was nothing for me to feel guilty about now. I had been good to Roy, and he had done the best that he knew to do for me. It just hadn't been in the cards for us. It was tragic and sad and I could spend my whole life depriving myself of new love out of guilt or obligation to his memory, but I didn't want to do that, and I'd like to think Roy, ultimately, wouldn't want that for me either, despite his jealous tendencies.

"You're awfully deep in thought," said Jim, having settled back against the pillows to watch the emotions playing over my face.

I smiled, meeting his eyes. "Just contemplating the whims of the universe," I said wryly.

"Anything you want to share with the class? I mean, there have been many great philosophers attacking this very topic, so if you have some particular insight…"

"I do," I said, scooting closer to him, reaching up to touch his stubbled cheek. "It's occurred to me that had I met you while Roy was alive, things would have been so much more...complicated."

He pondered that a moment, and he flinched as realization set in. "Yeah," was all he would say, but he knew what I meant.

Finding your soul mate with marriage vows between you would have been heartbreaking. How would we have lived that way, with the longing, with being deprived of being with someone you truly loved because your honor prevented you from doing otherwise? Our lives would have been so much different, so much more difficult. Would Jim and I have even risked being friends? How painful would it have been to see him every day and not be able to touch him, to kiss him, to be with him?

"It's okay," I said, "if you're thinking you're glad we met when we did. I feel the same way, even though I had to lose Roy to get here. That's what I mean by the whims of the universe. This was all out of our control; fate determined this. We each had to go through the experiences we have to get here, to prepare us for all of this. For each other."

He was quiet a moment, as my words hovered between us. "From the moment I met you, I knew you were it for me. I don't think I could have left you, even if you'd been married. I would have stayed here, following you around like a puppy waiting for scraps, just to be near you. I would have been totally pathetic, worshipping you from afar, blindly hoping that someday you might risk it all just for me."

I was both pleased and horrified at his words. As much as I would have wanted to be in his presence, I wouldn't have wanted him to throw away his life for what might never have been.

"I'm glad we didn't have to go through all that," I whispered, my hand caressing his dear face. He turned his head and kissed my palm.

"Me too." His simple words echoed all the gratitude that I was feeling too.

I didn't admit to him that I knew myself too well. I would never have broken my marriage vows. _Never_. And that would have been the true tragedy, for both of us.

I settled back down against him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I sighed blissfully.

"I think I'm gonna leave it to the real philosophers and religious scholars to figure all this crap out," I said, before a yawn overtook me.

I felt and heard his answering yawn. "Yeah, all this deep thinking is exhausting."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't think at all," I suggested, looking up at his face. He bent his head to kiss my forehead.

"You're right, Beesly. Why don't we—"

"Take a nap?"

He chuckled sleepily. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

**A/N: Epilogue coming soon! Thanks as always for reading and reviewing.**


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**_Pam_**

Jim and I decided to keep our relationship secret for awhile. I guess Angela was on to something when it came to the idea of taking a year of mourning. In this case, it wasn't for _me_, because I knew I was in love with Jim, and I didn't want or need to wait anymore. No, it was out of respect for Roy's friends in the warehouse, as well as his family and our other mutual friends outside of work. It would likely hurt them to see that I had moved on, and for many it might seem like it was way too soon, that I'd already forgotten about Roy.

It was difficult, sneaking around, and there really wasn't the excitement of doing something scandalous or clandestine that might have been there had the circumstances been different. We would take our separate cars and meet after work, taking turns staying at our different homes, falling into each others' arms after long hours of deprivation. If we wanted to go out, we went to a neighboring town. We stopped meeting in the stairwell or on the roof at the office, although we couldn't help flirting a little, playing pranks on Dwight, eating lunch together in the breakroom. I assured Kelly we were just work friends, but I knew she wasn't buying it. Angela had warmed up a little, and had brought brownies to Jim one day by way of apology, simply leaving a tin of them on his desk, with a note that said, "Treat her right, or else. ~A."

That afternoon, I'd grinned to see Jim cornering Angela in the kitchen and giving her one of his big bear hugs, lifting her off the ground as she protested, bestowing a smacking kiss on her forehead before setting her down. She'd acted offended and huffy, but I saw her smile a little as she escaped into the bathroom to straighten her hair. The next day, she joined us at our table for lunch.

November 15th would have been my first wedding anniversary with Roy. His mother had called me, leaving me in tears at the mixture of sadness and guilt at what I was keeping from her, that I could hear her pain, still so raw and heartbreaking. Adding to the awkwardness was that it was Sunday morning, and Jim had stayed over. He held me in my new queen size bed while I cried, understanding without words that I would always miss Roy, but that it took nothing away from what Jim and I had now.

Two months later, a different anniversary rolled around, and after work, Jim and Angela came with me to Roy's grave. It was a freezing January day, the sky threatening snow. There was already about four inches on the ground and I held tightly to Jim's hand for support, my boots crunching on the half-frozen snow. Family and friends had obviously been there earlier, the fresh roses and other flowers a splash of color against all the whiteness, along with a full can of beer I guessed had come from his brother Kenny.

I laid down the bouquet of cheap pink carnations—the first flowers Roy had ever given me when I was sixteen. I squatted, reaching out to brush the snow off the top of the cold granite, read his birthdate and date of death, traced the simple epitaph_: Beloved husband, son, brother, and friend_. I supposed that summed it up—everyone had loved Roy, and when I stood again, Jim holding one hand, Angela taking the other, I took a moment to remember my husband.

When Roy was happy, which was usually the case, his blue eyes would sparkle and his dimples would appear charmingly as he laughed. He loved having a good time, whether it was boating or four-wheeling, camping, hunting, playing poker or hanging out at Poor Richard's with the guys after work. On the weekends his brother and some buddies would inevitably be at our house to watch football or whatever sport was in season. I would keep them in snacks and beer, listening to the yells and laughter from my bedroom. He loved a good joke, loved to tease, loved to have sex. While he was occasionally insensitive, he had a good heart, adored his mother, was loyal to his friends.

"You want some time alone," Jim whispered.

I shook my head. "No, I'm glad you both are here." I took a deep breath of cold air, ignored the warm tear I felt sliding down my cheek. "Roy," I said, addressing his grave, "I want you to meet Jim. He's a good man too, and you don't have to worry now; I have someone to take care of me, to see that my oil gets changed, to fix the toilet—okay, to _call_ the plumber when the toilet gets clogged—" Jim chuckled beside me at the truth of that—I had recently discovered he was by no means a handyman. I squeezed Jim's hand and glanced at him with a watery smile.

"Anyway," I continued, "I'm going to be all right. I miss you, and I love you, and I will never forget you." I felt Jim bend and kiss my temple, before my two best friends pulled me into a group embrace, comforting me while I cried.

Later, Angela and I met the warehouse guys, Kenny, and some of Roy's other friends at Poor Richard's. Jim hadn't come, which was okay, and entirely appropriate, but Angela and I drank several shots amid endless toasts of remembrance, and old stories about Roy. Daryl Robinson had to give us both a lift home.

Hungover, I barely heard Jim's call the next morning.

"Hello," I croaked into the bedside phone.

"Hey. You don't sound so good. Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah. That's okay though. I had a little too much to drink last night. I need to get up anyway." I clutched my pounding head, my stomach lurching sickly, and I lay back down in misery.

"Can I bring you anything?" he asked sympathetically.

"You definitely don't want to see me like this."

He laughed softly. "Hey, Beesly, been there, done that myself. Not since college, mind you…"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'll be fine. I just need to take a shower, throw up, have some tea and toast—not necessarily in that order. I could use a favor later though, when I'm a little less hungover. Could you take me to pick up my car please? I had to get a ride home last night."

I could almost hear him frowning. "You should have called me."

"It was late; I didn't want to bother you."

"You can call me anytime Pam, for anything, you know that right?"

"Yes, I know, thanks. But hopefully you'll never have to pick me up drunk from a bar ever again. I'm too old for that crap."

He laughed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I said the same thing last time I went out with Mark and the boys."

I started to laugh too, but I moaned involuntarily when it hurt my head.

"I'll let you get some more sleep, or hug the porcelain god, whichever way you're leaning at the moment."

"Gee, thanks. I'll call you later. Love you."

I had about hung up when I heard him say: "Wait—_what_ did you say?"

"Huh?"

I thought a moment, then realized what I had said to him, albeit absently. I guess it was so a part of my feelings now, that in my hungover state, I hadn't been thinking clearly enough to filter my words.

"Are you still drunk, or did you really mean that?" His voice was hoarse, tense, anxious for my reply. I swallowed against my queasiness. Not exactly the way I wanted to confess my true feelings for him.

"I uh, I'm still a little drunk I guess, but I meant it. I mean, I do. Love you, I mean," I finished lamely, feeling sicker by the minute.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause, and suddenly I felt very unsure of myself. We hadn't said those words out loud yet, but I was pretty sure we were both feeling it, and had been for some time.

"I'll be right over," he said suddenly.

"Wait, no—"

"I for one am _not _drunk, Beesly, and I'm not going to say this over the phone."

"Oh, God," I managed, the bile rising in my throat. "I gotta go—"

When my stomach was completely empty, I managed to get myself in the shower, as hot as I could stand it. When I came out, it was to the smell of toasted bread and the sound of a teakettle. He'd let himself in with the key I'd given him a week before. Feeling shaky, I brushed my teeth.

Wrapped in my robe, I walked back into my room just as he entered with a tray of tea, toast, and ibuprofen. I blushed furiously, still reeling at what I'd admitted so unromantically.

He set down the tray at the foot of my bed and drew me in for a hug.

"Hey," he said, a smile in his voice, his chin on my wet hair. "Did you get it all out of your system?"

"I think I got my entire system out of my system."

He chuckled, then stepped back a little to look down into my face intently.

"Are you sobered up now?"

"Mostly," I said, feeling my face flush, my heart pound. My stomach turned over, though not from the hangover.

"In that, case…" he took a deep breath, and I felt his hands tremble a little where they rested on my shoulders. "I need to tell you…I love you too. So much, Pam. I've wanted to tell you for months now, but I was worried it was too soon…"

"Me too," I said, my voice barely above an astonished whisper.

He grinned from ear to ear, then he bent to kiss me, hesitating at the last moment. "You're not gonna throw up are you?"

"I don't think so."

"Worth the risk," he muttered, before pressing his lips to mine.

It had _all _been worth it, I thought, as his mouth moved lovingly over mine—all the pain, all the grief, all the letting go. I wrapped my arms around him and held on to joy.

**The End**

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading! **


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